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THE  MAN   NOBODY  KNEW 


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^^t%Jitii£t  ([no€V  »•  • 


And   .    .   .   and  after  all  I've  done!"   he  said  thickly. 
'*After  all  I've  said/'' 


THE 
MAN   NOBODY   KNEW 


BY 

HOLWORTHY  HALL 

Author  of  "Henry  of  Navarre,  Ohio,*'  **Pepper/ 

"Paprika/*  "What  He  Least  Expected," 

*'Dormie  One,'*  etc. 


ILLUSTRATIONS  BY 

CLARENCE  F.  UNDERWOOD 


NEW  YORK 
DODD,  MEAD  AND  COMPANY 
1919 


COPTRIOHT,    1918, 

By  DODD,  mead  and  company,  Inc. 


First  edition  printed  Dec.  6,   1918. 
Second    edition    printed   Jan.    11,    1919. 
Third  edition  printed  Jan.    17,   1919. 

Fourth   edition   printed   Jan.   28,   I919. 


TO 
MARNIE  AND  JEAN  akd  JOHN 


2136192    I 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

"And  .  .  .  and  after  all  I've  done!  "  he  said  thickly. 
"  After  all  I've  said! '' Frontispiece 

tAGE 

Shocked  and  horrified^  she  was  gazing  at  the  picture 
postcard  he  had  snatched  from  under  his  pillow      .        7 

"  Now  we've  got  to  hurry/*  he  said.     "  Come,  dear !  "  .    167 

Angela  had  sprung  between  them:     Hilliard  saw  that 
her  cheeksi  were  tear-stained 250 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 


IN"  the  beginning  of  things,  he  was  merely  a  number; 
but  even  that  was  creditable,  because  his  number 
was  low  enough  to  signify  that  he  had  responded  pretty 
promptly  to  the  rallying  call.  After  that,  and  with 
the  cataclysmic  suddenness  which  marked  all  changes 
of  military  status  on  the  Western  front,  he  became,  one 
frosty  morning,  a  Case,  and  got  himself  roughly  classi- 
fied (and  tenderly  handled)  as  a  Stretcher  Case,  a 
Grand  Blesse,  and,  in  consequence,  a  proper  temporary 
inmate  of  a  field  hospital  on  the  Belgian  plains. 

There,  he  was  unofficially  known  as  a  Joyeux,  or 
Joyous  One ;  not  because  he  displayed  a  very  buoyant 
disposition  —  far  from  it !  —  but  because  he  belonged 
to  the  Foreign  Legion ;  and  in  the  course  of  another 
day  or  two  he  was  routine-ticketed  as  an  Evacue,  and 
provided  with  a  lukewarm  hot-water  bottle  and  a  couple 
of  evil-smelhng  cigarettes  to  console  him  on  the  road  to 
the  base  hospital  at  Neuilly. 

At  Neuilly  he  became,  for  the  first  time  since  his  en- 
listment, an  Individual,  and  at  the  very  outset  he  was 
distinguished  by  certain  qualities  which  had  passed 
unnoticed  in  the  frying  pan  and  fire  of  the  trenches. 
For  one  thing,  he  was  obviously  immune  to  kindness; 
and  for  another,  he  was  apparently  immune  to  hope. 
He  was  a  man  of  inveterate  silence ;  not  the  grim  silence 
of  fortitude  in  suffering  (which  is  altogether  too  com- 


a  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

mon  a  virtue  in  base  hospitals  to  earn  any  especial 
merit),  but  rather  the  dogged  reticence  of  black  moods 
and  chronic  bitterness.  To  be  sure,  speech  was  phys- 
ically difficult  for  him,  but  other  men  with  similar  mis- 
fortunes spoke  blessings  with  their  eyes,  and  gave  back 
gratitude  in  voiceless  murmurs.  Not  so  the  Joyous 
One.  From  the  day  of  his  arrival  he  demanded  noth- 
ing, desired  nothing,  but  to  brood  sullenly  aloof;  and 
so,  when  he  became  an  Individual,  he  also  became  a  mys- 
tery to  the  nursing  staff.  It  was  rumoured  that  he  was 
an  implacable  woman  hater,  and  there  seemed  to  be 
something  in  it. 

The  wound  in  his  knee  was  healing  admirably ;  the 
bullet  wound  in  his  right  forearm  was  inconvenient 
rather  than  dangerous ;  and  as  for  his  third  and  by  far 
the  most  serious  of  his  injuries  —  a  glancing  drift  of 
shrapnel  across  his  face  —  the  surgeons  had  promised 
faithfully  to  nullify  it  in  due  time.  But  in  spite  of  their 
professional  optimism,  and  regardless  of  the  care  of 
the  American  nurses  (all  hoveringly  attentive  to  one 
of  their  own  nation  who  had  fought  for  France),  his 
spirit  remained  abysmal,  and  clouded  in  gloom.  Only 
twice,  in  the  initial  month  of  his  confinement,  did  he 
betray  the  weakness  of  an  ordinary  emotion;  on  each 
occasion  a  gold-laced  general  had  come  to  salute,  in  the 
name  of  the  Republic,  one  of  the  Individual's  neighbours, 
and  to  deliver  a  bit  of  bronze  which  dangled  from  a 
ribbon  striped  red  and  green.  It  was  said  (and 
doubted  by  those  who  hadn't  seen  it)  that  at  these 
ceremonies  the  Individual  had  grown  feverish,  and  let 
tears  come  to  his  eyes,  but  subsequently  he  had  relapsed 
into  still  greater  depths  of  stoicism  than  before:  his 
own  bed-jacket  was  innocent  of  cross  or  medal,  and  his 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  S 

depression  was  apparent,  and  acute.  The  nurses, 
arguing  that  perhaps  his  pride  was  wounded  as  seri- 
ously as  his  flesh,  offered  quick  condolence,  and  got 
themselves  rebuffed  with  shrugs  of  the  Individual's 
shoulders,  and  inarticulate  sounds  which  had  all  the 
earmarks  of  suppressed  profanity.  He  didn't  even 
soften  when  Pierre  Dutout,  a  hard-hit  Territorial  in 
the  next  bed,  squandered  a  day's  supply  of  energy  to 
lean  across  and  whisper  sympathetically  to  him :  "  Old 
man  .  .  .  Vieucc  espece  de  choux-croute  ...  I  know 
how  it  is  .  .  .  and  I  haven't  got  any  friends  either.  I 
want  you  to  take  my  Croix  de  Gicerre,  .  .  .  When  I  go 
nowhere." 

Nor  did  he  waver  in  his  flintlike  isolation  when  Dutout, 
one  sunny  morning,  struggled  half  erect  and  gave  the 
world  the  last  of  his  countless  smiles,  and  said,  quite 
distinctly :  **  Le  moment  s'approche  .  .  .  liberie  .  .  . 
egaUte  .  .  .  fraternite  ,  .  ,  et  vive  la  France!  "  And 
died,  still  smiling  —  and  still  unthanked  —  trying  to 
unpin  the  war  cross  he  thought  would  please  his  mel- 
ancholy neighbour. 

Liberty !  —  and  the  Individual  chafed  in  the  hard- 
won  liberty  of  his  soul.  Equality !  —  and  he  had  shared 
the  ideals  of  all  civilization,  and  the  privilege  of  de- 
fending them  with  all  his  might.  Fraternity !  —  and 
if  he  had  never  sensed  the  warmth  of  it  before,  he  had 
its  glowing  proof  in  Pierre  Dutout,  and  in  the  corps 
of  altruists  and  angels  who  had  daily  ministered  to 
them  both ;  and  yet,  even  when  speech  returned  to  him, 
he  was  a  man  of  curt  responses  and  stinging  mono- 
syllables —  a  problem  to  the  surgeons,  a  problem  to 
the  nurses  and  (if  the  expression  in  his  eyes  meant 
anything),   an   overwhehning  problem   to  himself.     It 


4  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

appeared  that,  after  all,  it  wasn't  simply  women  that 
he  hated  —  it  w^as  the  universe. 

His  military  book  implied  that  he  had  no  parents, 
no  close  relations,  no  friends  to  notify,  no  fixed  abode. 
He  received  no  visitors,  no  letters,  no  packages 
freighted  with  magical  delight.  But  to  those  who 
pitied  him  in  all  his  loneliness,  he  was  utterly  con- 
temptuous ;  he  even  went  so  far  as  to  fillip  sidelong 
to  the  floor  a  religious  postcard  tendered  him  by  a 
devout  and  sentimental  passer-by,  and  he  did  it  in  her 
presence,  unashamed.  Later,  when  a  smiling  orderly 
picked  up  that  postcard,  and  tucked  it  under  his  pillow, 
he  was  no  less  contemptuous  in  permitting  it  to  remain. 
But  the  one  stupendous  fact  which,  more  than  all  else 
combined,  made  him  an  object  of  bewildered  curiosity 
was  this  —  that  of  the  scores  and  scores  of  men  with 
head-wounds  who  were  reborn  at  Neuilly  that  spring 
and  summer,  he  was  the  only  one  who  had  never  asked 
for  a  mirror. 

This,  of  itself,  wouldn't  have  been  astonishing  as 
long  as  he  delayed  in  the  preliminary  stage  of  recov- 
ery, for  now  and  then  a  man  with  head-wounds  proves 
to  be  super-sensitive;  but  in  the  second  stage  it  was 
remarkable,  and  in  the  third  stage  it  was  unique.  The 
staff  held  it  to  be  extraordinar}^  from  a  social  as  well 
as  from  a  pathological  viewpoint,  that  a  man  so  ter- 
ribly disfigured  should  have  no  interest  —  not  even 
a  morbid  interest  —  in  his  own  appearance.  And  it 
wasn't  that  the  Individual  was  simply  indifferent  to  the 
mirror;  on  the  contrary,  his  aversion  to  it  was  active 
and  energetic :  he  flinched,  and  motioned  it  frantically 
away  as  though  the  mere  conception  of  seeing  himself  as 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  5 

others  saw  him  was  too  repellent,  and  too  unthinkable 
to  endure.  At  first,  they  fancied  that  he  might  have 
picked  up,  during  some  phase  of  liis  delirium,  one  of 
those  unexplainable  illusions  which  attach  themselves 
to  wandering  minds,  and  by  gentle  advances  they  tried 
to  educate  him.  Later  on,  when  they  realized  that  his 
actions  were  quite  intentional  and  sane,  they  stopped 
the  advances,  except  for  an  occasional  trial  or  two  to 
discover  if  the  puzzling  inhibition  had  yet  left  him. 
Eventually  —  and  this  was  as  soon  as  he  could  speak 
with  clearness  —  they  discontinued  all  experiments,  and 
let  him  be  as  unusual  as  he  pleased.  They  only  watched 
him,  wondering  when  a  normal  itch  of  self-conceit  would 
take  effect  upon  him.  They  watched  the  moon  around, 
and  then  they  forgot.  He  had  never  relented;  and 
even  angels  in  women's  clothing  are  likely  to  pay  the 
most  of  their  attention  to  people  who  meet  them  half 
way. 

There  came  a  day  in  April  when  a  photograph  was 
requested  of  him.  Surely  he  knew  where  there  was  a 
likeness  of  himself,  didn't  he?  His  old  passport  photo- 
graph, which  had  mysteriously  disappeared,  or  — 

The  Individual  glanced  up  from  his  present  task; 
the  wound  in  his  arm  was  still  anno^ang,  and  he  was 
absorbed  in  learning  to  write  with  his  left  hand. 

"  What  for?  "  he  muttered. 

"  Why,"  said  the  nurse,  cheerfull}^,  "  for  a  model. 
To  help  the  surgeons.  They'll  take  your  picture  for  a 
guide  and  make  you  look  almost  exactly  the  way  you 
did  before." 

The  Individual  from  America  sat  up  straight,  so 
that  the  nurse  was  startled  by  his  animation,  which  was 


6  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

without  a  parallel  in  his  local  history.  His  breath 
came  faster,  and  the  pencil  dropped  from  his  thin 
fingers. 

"  What!  "  he  said, 

"  Certainly ! "  The  nurse  spoke  in  the  tone  one 
uses  to  an  ailing  child.  "  You've  known  that,  haven't 
you?" 

The  Individual's  voice  was  queerly  unmanageable 
and  strained.  "  You  mean  to  say  they're  going  to 
make  me  look  the  way  .  .  .  Could  they  do  that? 
Could  they?     Even  norv?  " 

"  Why,  of  course,"  she  assured  him. 

"  You  never  told  me  that !  "  he  said,  passionately. 
"Why  didn't  you?  Why  couldn't  you  have  told  me! 
And  here  I've  been  .  .  ."  He  put  his  hands  to  his 
bandaged  face,  and  seemed  to  shrink  within  himself. 
Then  all  at  once  he  burst  out :  "  Well,  there's  nothing 
to  prevent  .  .  .  Then  they  could  make  me  not  look 
like  it  then,  if  they  wanted  to!     Isn't  that  so?  " 

She  regarded  him  in  vast  perplexity,  and  thought  of 
summoning  a  surgeon,  for  the  man  had  begun  to 
quiver  as  though  from  shell-shock  —  which  he  hadn't 
undergone. 

"  Why,  I  don't  understand  what  you  mean,"  she  said 
soothingly.     "But  if  you'll  just  be  calm  and — " 

The  Individual  gestured  with  fierce  impatience. 

"  If  they  can  do  what  you  say,  and  make  me  look 
like  any  old  thing  they  choose  to,  then  what  in  the 
devil  are  they  asking  me  for  a  photograph  for?  " 

"  Why,  to  go  by,"  she  said,  helplessly.  "  You  want 
to  look  like  your  old  self,  don't  you  ?  " 

''No,  I  don't!'' 

The  nurse  gasped.     His  tone  had  been  churlish,  but 


q>\t^0^AiH_^3^^u^ 


Sliocked  and   horrified,   she  was   gazmg   at   the    picture 
postcard  he  had  snatched  from  under  his  pillow 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  If 

the  echo  of  it  vaguely  suggested  triumph  and  relief. 
His  symptoms  had  subsided  .  .  .  could  it  be  that  he 
actually  was  relieved?  Dumfounded,  she  made  another 
effort  to  convince  him. 

"  But  you  must  want  to  look  just  as  nearly  like  — " 

"  Don't  you  suppose  /  know  what  I  want  ?  "  he  in- 
terrupted rudely. 

"  But  haven't  you  a  photograph,  anyway,  that  I 
can—" 

"  No,  I  haven't !  "  he  snapped,  and  then  in  the  next 
moment  a  cold  light  flamed  in  his  eyes,  and  his  pupils 
dwindled  to  needle-points  and  he  was  staring  up  at  her 
in  miserable,  cruel  cynicism.  Involuntarily  she  stepped 
backward,  and  her  cheeks  went  scarlet.  *'  No,"  he 
repeated,  with  vicious  emphasis,  "  I  haven't."  It  was  a 
lie ;  the  passport  photograph  was  in  the  lining  of  a 
certain  wallet,  and  he  had  hid  it  there  for  reasons  of 
his  own.  But  now  that  one  great  danger  was  definitely 
past,  and  a  still  further  bulwark  of  protection  offered, 
if  the  nurse  spoke  truth,  the  Individual  could  afford  to 
come  out  from  ambush.  "  And  I  don't  want  to  look  the 
way  I  did  before,  and  what's  more,  I  never  did !  But 
if  your  doctors  are  half  as  smart  as  they  think  they 
are,  let  'em  make  me  look  like  that!  Or  anything  else 
either  —  /  don't  give  a  damn !  " 

Shocked  and  horrified,  she  was  gazing  at  the  picture 
postcard  he  had  snatched  from  under  his  pillow  and 
thrust  upon  her.  It  was  a  reproduction  of  a  religious 
painting  by  Rembrandt.  It  was  the  radiant  face  of 
the  Christ. 


n 


NINE  O'CLOCK  on  a  night  in  June  —  not  a  June 
evening,  heavy-starred  on  velvet  —  but  a  furious 
June  night,  with  Stygian  blackness  looping  overhead, 
and  Stygian  water  battering  and  boiling  against  the 
hull-plates.  The  wind  was  blowing  less  than  half  a 
gale,  but  clammy  cool  and  threatening,  out  of  the  south- 
east ;  the  head  sea,  slapping  and  spitting  forth  at  the 
liner's  bow,  gave  way  reluctantly  to  the  sturdy  bulk, 
and  rushed  astern  in  savage  impotence.  The  ship 
was  dark  as  the  night  itself ;  blind  dark,  without  a  single 
ray  to  play  the  traitor.  On  deck,  a  solitary  venturer 
hugged  the  rail,  and  apathetically  watched  the  waves 
tear  past. 

Out  of  the  warmth  and  cheer  and  the  vitiated  at- 
mosphere of  the  smoking-room  came  Martin  Harmon, 
big,  florid,  exuberant;  and  as  the  raw  air  reached  to 
his  lungs,  he  took  it  rapturously ;  his  eyes  sparkled,  and 
he  inhaled  with  prodigious  gulps,  revelling  in  the  strong 
restorative.  A  heaving  lift  of  the  deck  sent  him  lurch- 
ing sidewise ;  he  saved  his  balance  by  struggling  toward 
the  rail,  when  suddenly  the  slope  was  reversed,  and  he 
shpped,  and  slid  to  the  barrier  of  safety,  clutched  it, 
and  found  himself  at  arms'  length  from  the  lonel}^ 
watcher,  who  hadn't  stirred,  or  even  turned  his  head. 

"  Hello !  "  said  Harmon,  his  surprise  tinctured  with 
easy  familiarity.  "  Some  night !  "  His  natural  voice 
was  resonant  enough  to  carry  against  the  wind  with 
scarcely  an  effort. 

"  Yes,  it  is."     The  tone  of  the  response  was  curt, 

8 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  9 

so  curt  that  Harmon  instinctively  leaned  forward  to 
discover  what  expression  of  countenance  went  with  it. 
The  night  was  so  black  that  he  might  as  well  have 
tried  to  penetrate  a  curtain  of  solid  fabric. 

"  Seen  any  U-boats  yet?  "  he  asked  humorously. 

"  Not  yet."  The  taciturn  one  moved  a  trifle  away  ;  a 
man  less  thin-skinned  and  less  dined  and  wined  than 
Harmon  would  probably  have  taken  the  hint,  and  re- 
moved himself. 

"  Hardly  their  kind  of  weather,  anyway.  .  .  .  Been 
over  on  business,  have  you?  " 

The  other  man  snuggled  deeper  into  his  coat.  "  Yes 
—  on  business." 

"  So've  I.  Wasted  my  time.  Oh,  I'm  glad  I've  seen 
a  bit  of  it,  of  course, —  gives  you  something  to  talk 
about  —  but  as  for  getting  anywhere  —  nothing  doing. 
-46-so-luteIy  nothing  doing!  .  .   .  How  about  you?  " 

"  About  the  same."  The  taciturn  passenger  had 
vitriol  on  his  tongue,  but  Harmon,  clinging  tight  to  the 
rail  as  the  ship  bucked  heavily  through  the  oncoming 
seas,  was  imperturbable. 

"So?     No  luck  at  aU?" 

"  None  at  all." 

"Come  over  to   sell   something,  did  you?" 

"  No." 

"  Oh !  "  Harmon  nodded  his  head  sagely.  "  I'll 
take  two  guesses,  and  guess  right  the  second  time, 
maybe.     Buying  for  somebody,  then?" 

"  No." 

Not  the  least  disconcerted  by  his  seven  rebuffs, 
Harmon  deliberately  courted  the  eighth.  His  was  an 
inquisitive  disposition,  and  he  never  attempted  to  curb 
it  —  he  was  the  sort  of  travelling  companion  who  makes 


10  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

kind  and  Christian  citizens  reflect  upon  the  definition  of 
justifiable  homicide. 

"What  is  jour  line,  anyway?"  he  iiiquired,  after  a 
pause. 

The  other  man  laughed  queerlj. 

*'  The  first  ...  if  it  makes  so  much  difference  to 
you." 

"Beg  pardon  .f^  I  don't  quite  get  you.  You 
said  .  .  ." 

"  I  said  the  first  line.  I  meant  the  first  line  trenches. 
I've  been  in  it." 

Harmon  jerked  his  head  upward  in  comprehension. 

"  Oh,  I  see !  You  mean  the  war !  And  you've  been 
right  on  the  spot  where  the  fighting  is?  Is  that  a 
fact!" 

"  Yes." 

"  I  couldn't  see  whether  you  had  a  uniforai  on,  or 
not,"  said  Harmon,  half  in  apology.  "  But  you 
haven't,  have  you?  No  wonder  I  couldn't  guess  .  .  . 
Jiminy,  but  it's  getting  nasty  out  here,  isn't  it?  .  .  . 
Where  were  you?  " 

"  Flanders." 

"  Is  that  so?  Pretty  lively  up  there,  isn't  it?  Some- 
thing stirring  most  all  the  time?  " 

"  I  imagine  so."  The  other  man's  accent  was  amaz- 
ingly diffident,  and  Harmon  peered  at  him,  incredulous. 

"  Good  Lord,  don't  you  know?  " 

"  Not  a  great  deal.  I  happened  to  get  hit  the 
first  day  I  was  in  the  trenches." 

"Really?     That's  an  odd  one!     When  was  that?" 

"  Sixteen  months  ago." 

"  But  you  got  in  it  again  afterT7ards,  I  suppose?  I'll 
bet  you  did!" 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  11 

"  No." 

"  What !  You  never  got  back  at  all?  Just  one  day, 
and  you're  through?  " 

"  Yes.  After  I  was  discharged  from  hospital,  I  was 
discharged  from  the  army,  too.     Permanently  unfit." 

"English  Army.?" 

"  No  —  French." 

"  Well,  that's  some  record !  "  said  Harmon  apprecia- 
tively. "  I  .  .  .  Look  out !  Duck  your  head,  son ! 
Say,  that  was  a  he-wave,  wasn't  it.'^  Well  —  you  got 
hit  the  first  day,  and  it  was  all  over!  That  certainly 
is  some  record !  Not  to  say  tough  luck  —  the  toughest 
kind.  Never  heard  of  anything  like  it,  or  anywhere 
near  like  it.     Going  back  home,  I  take  it.?  " 

"  Looks  that  way,  doesn't  it.?  " 

Harmon  ignored  the  sarcasm. 

"  Back  to  work,  eh.?  What  did  you  say  your  line 
is.?" 

*'  I  didn't  say.     I  haven't  any  just  now." 

Harmon  pondered  a  second. 

"Oh!  Gentleman  of  leisure?  Soldier  of  fortune, 
eh?  That's  how  you  happened  to  get  into  it?  Gad! 
If  I  were  fifteen  years  younger  myself  — " 

The  young  man's  dignity  was  superb.  "  Not  exactly 
that,  either.     And  if  you'll  be  so  good  as  to  tell  me  —" 

Harmon  laughed  with  abandon ;  the  conversation  had 
become  very  near  to  a  conflict  of  wills,  and  he  loved 
to  get  what  he  started  after.  Also,  he  was  suflBciently 
mellowed  to  consider  the  interview  in  the  light  of 
comedy. 

"  Oh !  don't  get  excited !  People  interest  me.  Only 
way  to  live  —  make  friends  as  you  go  along.  I  al- 
ways like  to  hear  what  the  other  fellow  has  to  say  for 


1ft  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

himself.  That's  how  to  get  the  best  slant  on  life  in 
general." 

"  Indeed !  " 

"  Yes,  sir  1  And  it  don't  take  me  such  a  terrible 
long  time  to  size  up  a  man,  either.  Sort  of  a  knack 
—  it  comes  by  itself.  Now  take  you,  for  instance ; 
know  what  I  make  out  of  you.^  I'd  take  a  chance  off- 
hand—  just  from  what  you've  said  and  the  way  you've 
said  it  —  that  you  might  be  a  young  man  who's  sacri- 
ficed a  good  deal  to  get  over  there,  and  you  thought 
you'd  get  some  glory  and  hurrah-bo3's  out  of  it,  and 
then  you  had  all  that  tough  luck,  and  now  you're  sort 
of  worrying  about  what's  waiting  for  you  behind  the 
Statue  of  Liberty.  You  don't  know  exactly  whether 
you're  afoot  or  horseback.  That's  all.  Well,  now  — 
Am  I  right,  or  am  I  wrong .'^  " 

The  young  man  lifted  his  shoulders. 

"  Go  ahead  —  if  it  pleases  you." 

"  Well,  it  does.  Come  pretty  near  hitting  the  nail 
on  the  head,  didn't  I.''  Custom  of  mine.  Comes  in 
handy  in  my  business  .  .  .  Well,  I  wouldn't  worry  if 
I  were  you.  You're  disappointed;  that's  natural  .  .  . 
but  the  world  hasn't  come  to  an  end  yet.  Of  course,  it 
is  something  like  a  come-down  to  leave  the  army,  and 
get  into  harness  again,  but  after  all,  there's  plenty  of 
excitement  right  in  the  United  States.  Big  work  to  be 
done,  son!  Big  money  to  make.  And  it  helps  the 
war  along,  too.  I  tell  you,  there  never  was  a  bigger 
opportunity  to  make  money  than  there  is  right  this 
minute.  Business  is  big,  and  profits  are  big,  and 
they're  going  to  get  bigger  and  bigger  all  the  time  .  .  . 
the  hard  job  isn't  to  find  the  scheme,  it's  to  find  the 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  13 

men  to  run  it.  Don't  you  worry  .  .  .  you'll  land  some- 
thing right  off  the  bat !  " 

"  Thanks  for  the  compliment !  " 

"  Oh,  it's  no  compliment !  Anybody  can  make  money 
these  days.  It's  a  plain  statement  of  fact  .  .  .  Say, 
don't  you  think  the  wind's  getting  a  bit  too  breezy.? 
Let's  go  in  and  have  something." 

"  I  don't  think  so  —  thank  you." 

Harmon  took  him  firmly  by  the  arm. 

"  Oh,  yes,  you  will.  What  you  need  is  to  be  braced 
up.  Don't  hang  around  and  grouch  at  everything; 
come  in  and  be  sociable.  What  you  want's  a  drink. 
Am  I  right  or  am  I  wrong. ^^  " 

"  Well  — " 

"  And  that's  what  the  doctor  ordered !  Come  on ! 
It's  on  me." 

The  other  man  hesitated,  and  at  last  succumbed,  out 
of  sheer  unconcern,  to  a  companionship  he  realized  in 
advance  would  be  distasteful  .  .  .  but  tonight  it  was 
better  than  nothing,  especially  since  the  talkative  per- 
son had  volunteered  to  buy. 

"  All  right,"  he  consented  briefl}^ ;  and  together, 
arm-in-arm,  they  stumbled  and  tacked  across  the 
treacherous  deck,  and  presently  crossed  the  threshold 
into  the  hazy  light  of  the  smoking  room.  A  small 
table  in  the  corner  was  unoccupied ;  they  made  for  it, 
and  dropped  into  opposite  chairs.  Harmon,  smiling 
broadly,  wiped  the  brine  from  his  smarting  eyes. 

"  Now  then,"  he  said,  "  what  particular  brand  of 
poison  do  you  — "  And  broke  off  short,  and  stared, 
fascinated,  at  the  extraordinary  young  man  in  front 
of  him. 


14  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

He  was  anywhere  from  twenty-flve  to  forty,  this 
American  from  the  distant  trenches,  and  his  age  was  as 
hard  to  guess  as  a  clever  woman's ;  there  ^as  something 
about  him  peculiar  to  youth  and  yet,  when  his  face  was 
in  repose,  he  might  easily  have  claimed  two  score  of 
years,  and  gone  undisputed.  It  was  a  face  which  sug- 
gested both  the  fire  of  immaturity,  and  the  drain  of 
experience;  there  was  breath-taking  gravity  about  it, 
a  hint  of  the  dignity  of  marble,  of  ageless  permanence. 
It  was  a  slightly  thin  face,  scarred  by  a  heavy  line  or 
two,  and  indelibly  stamped  with  the  evidence  of  in- 
tense thought,  and  inward  suffering;  but  it  lacked  the 
hollows  which,  at  the  first  glance,  should  have  sup- 
ported the  evidence.  It  was  a  thin  and  oval  face,  with 
a  mouth  of  large  and  sympathetic  sweetness ;  a  fore- 
head white  and  high ;  a  prominent,  delicate  nose ;  and 
irises  of  clear,  luminous  gray.  It  wasn't  altogether 
an  Anglo-Saxon  type  of  countenance,  nor  was  it  defi- 
nitely European ;  it  seemed  rather  to  have  taken  aU 
the  better  qualities  from  several  races.  It  was  a  face 
to  inspire  immediate  trust,  and  confidence,  and  re- 
spect, and  Harmon,  despite  his  lack  of  practice  in  all 
three  of  these  reactions,  was  evidently  attracted  by 
it.  Unwittingly,  he  sat  up  straighter ;  and  he  compre- 
hended, without  going  very  far  in  the  way  of  analysis, 
that  he  had  run  across  a  person  worth  remembering. 

"  Vichy-Celestins  for  me,"  said  the  old-young  man, 
indifferently. 

"  I'll  ...  I  guess  I'll  have  vichy,  too,"  said  Harmon, 
relaxing.  His  assurance  slowly  returned ;  nevertheless, 
as  he  continued  to  study  his  remarkable  guest,  he 
dropped  a  fraction  of  his  familiarity.  "  If  it  wasn't 
for  something  I  can't  just  describe,  I'd  say  .  .  .  well, 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  15 

never  mind.  Er  .  .  .  what  business  have  you  been 
in,  by  the  way?  " 

The  younger  man's  reply  was  tardy,  and  not  par- 
ticularly gracious. 

"  Why,  the  longest  time  I  ever  put  in  at  any  one  busi- 
ness was  selling  insurance.  The  last  thing  I  did  was 
to  sell  bonds.     Why?" 

Harmon  stiffened.  "  A  salesman !  Good  Lord  \ 
That's  the  last  thing  in  the  world  I'd  have  .  .  .  but, 
say !     You  must  have  been  a  whirlwind !  " 

The  younger  man's  calmness  under  flattery  was  dis- 
concerting. Indeed,  his  lips  twitched  as  though  he 
were  mentally  charging  off  the  whole  account. 

"What  makes  you  think  that!" 

"  Why,  there's  only  two  kinds  of  men  that  make 
good  in  insurance:  the  aggressive  devils  and  the  per- 
suasive ones.  And  dealing  with  women  — '  and  older 
men  .  .  .  the  way  you  have  to,  Lord,  what  an  asset 
you've  got !  "  He  motioned  towards  himself.  **  And 
in  my  line  .  .  .  why,  a  man  with  a  presence  like  yours 
would  hardly  have  to  open  his  mouth!  You've  got  a 
sort  of  .  .  .  I'll  be  hanged  if  I  know  what  to  call  it 
.  .  .  but  a  kind  of  feeling^  if  you  know  what  I  mean. 
Salesman !  Why,  all  you  need  is  an  introduction  and 
a  dotted  line !  " 

The  young  man  laughed,  rather  forlornly,  and  sipped 
his  vichy. 

"  Just  at  present,  I  haven't  either." 

Harmon's  gaze  was  unfaltering,  and  his  interest 
and  admiration  bounded  higher.  Mechanically,  in  ac- 
cordance with  his  habits,  he  was  striving  to  discover 
how  this  new  acquaintance  might  be  put  to  practical 
use.     "  Was  I  right,  or  was  I  wrong?     Playing  in  hard 


16  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

luck  don't  strengthen  a  man's  courage  much,  even  if 
he  tries  to  bluff  himself  into  thinking  it  does.  I  didn't 
say  that  getting  licked  every  once  in  a  while  isn't  a 
good  thing  for  a  man ;  I  said  '  hard  luck.'  I  sort  of 
imagine  you've  had  a  big  dose  of  it,  lately.  Not  just 
getting  hurt,  but  all  along  the  line.     Right?" 

The  young  man  nodded  slightly.     "  Somewhat." 

"  You  understand  I'm  not  trying  to  poke  into  your 
private  affairs,  but  — " 

"  Still,"  said  tlie  young  man,  his  lips  twitching 
again,  "  I  owe  you  something  for  your  hospitality  — 
and  the  only  currency  I've  got  about  me  is  informa- 
tion." 

"  Don't  feel  any  obligation !  Pleasure,  I  assure 
you  .  .  .  Now,  to  get  back  to  the  mutton,  as  the 
French  say  .  .  .  you  better  cheer  up  and  start  think- 
ing about  the  future.  Cut  out  the  regret  stuff;  that's 
7ny  advice,  and  you  can  take  it  or  leave  it.  Forget 
all  that  tough  luck  you  had  over  here,  and  get  busy 
figuring  out  how  you're  going  to  cash  in  on  all  3^our 
experience.  That's  my  policy  —  capitalize  your  bad 
luck.  Get  something  out  of  it."  He  beamed,  like  a 
reformer  in  the  presence  of  one  to  be  reformed. 
"  America's  full  of  chances  —  ^^ou'll  land  something 
big  in  no  time.  Can't  help  it  if  you  try.  Salesman! 
Son,  you're  carrying  your  best  recommendation  right 
on  top  of  your  own  shoulders  !  " 

The  young  man  gave  him  back  a  wry  smUe,  and 
finished  his  vichy. 

"  I  only  hope  it  comes  true,"  he  said. 

Harmon  looked  at  him  steadily,  and  falling  under 
the  spell  of  those  radiant  features,  stared  and  stared 
until  he  came  to  himself,  and  all  at  once  brought  his 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  17 

fist  down  on  the  table,  so  that  the  glasses  rang  again. 

"  Well,  why  shouldn't  it  ?  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
why  shouldn't  it  ?  " 

The  younger  man's  expression  hadn't  changed. 
"  Meaning  what  ?  " 

"  Meaning,"  said  Harmon,  deliberately,  "  that  the 
first  thing  I've  got  to  do  when  I  get  home  is  to  hunt  up 
a  couple  of  good  salesmen  myself.  I  said  that  before, 
didn't  I  ?  No  ?  It's  a  fact,  anyhow.  Well  —  are  you 
hunting  for  a  good  job,  or  aren't  3-0U?  "  His  manner, 
—  considering  that  a  moment  ago  he  had  pounded  the 
table  —  was  elaborately  casual.  It  was  as  though  an 
inspiration  had  seized  him,  and  now  he  wanted  to  hide 
it  pending  further  developments. 

"Aren't  you  a  little  hasty?  "  The  young  man's  in- 
tonation was  sardonic. 

"  I've  cleaned  up  most  of  my  mone}^,"  said  Harmon, 
very  slowly  to  the  ceiling,  "  by  making  quick  decisions. 
I  make  up  my  mind  pretty  fast.  I  like  old  Bob  Fitz- 
simmons'  rule  for  fighting  —  he  said  the  place  to  hit 
from  is  wherever  your  hand  is  .  .  .  Well,  if  you  can 
interest  me  on  short  notice,  you  can  interest  other  peo- 
ple. Mind  you,  we're  just  discussing  this  —  sort  of 
thinking  out  loud.  No  obligation  on  either  side. 
Doesn't  do  any  harm  to  talk  about  it,  does  it?  " 

"  Then  suppose,"  said  the  young  man  placidly,  "  you 
define  your  idea  of  a  good  job.     I'm  rather  particular." 

"  How's  that?  Are  you  in  any  position  to  be  par- 
ticular? " 

"  Certainly.     I  am." 

"  But  you  admit  you're  out  of  luck,  and  — " 

"  But  you  admit  I'm  a  whirlwind."  The  young  man 
smiled  with  faint  amusement. 


18  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

"  I  said  you  ought  to  be  —  with  training." 

"  Did  you  mention  the  training  part  of  it." 

"  No,  but  that  was  understood." 

"  Oh!     Who  understood  it.?  " 

"  Why,  7  did.  Because  if  you  had  been  as  good  as 
you  ought  to  be,  you  wouldn't  have  anything  to  worry 
about  now  you're  coming  back,  would  you?  Am  I 
right,  or  am  I  wrong.?  " 

The  young  man's  mouth  turned  upwards  at  the  cor- 
ners. 

'*  Go  ahead  and  describe  the  job." 

Harmon  never  ceased  to  study  him. 

"Well,  my  idea  of  a  pretty  sweet  job  for  a  man 
of  your  age  is  —  to  start,  of  course  —  about  twenty  a 
week,  and  commissions." 

"  Yes  ?     What  percent  commission .?  " 

"  Oh !  eight  to  ten  percent." 

The  young  man  glanced  at  Harmon,  and  laughed 
quietly. 

"  You're  a  broker,  of  course,  but  that  doesn't  sound 
much  like  conservative  investment  securities  to  me. 
What  is  it  —  industrials.?  " 

Harmon  grimaced. 

"  Yes,  I'm  a  broker."  He  set  down  his  glass  and 
fumbled  for  a  card.  "  There !  But  I  was  thinking 
more  about  stocks  than  bonds.  Some  new  Montana 
properties  —  copper  and  zinc.  Metals  are  the  big 
noise  these  days.  I  guess  you  realize  that,  don't  you? 
Munition  work.  Copper's  close  to  thirty  cents  now, 
and  when  you  went  across,  it  must  have  been  about 
twelve." 

The  younger  man  glanced  at  the  card.  "  My  name  is 
Hilliard.     Well  —  is  competition  so  keen  you  can  af- 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  19 

ford  to  pay  that  high  for  business,  or  is  the  stuff  just 
hard  to  sell?" 

Harmon,  who  had  begun  to  nod  assent  to  the  first 
question,  looked  rather  blank  at  the  second,  but  rallied 
quickly. 

"  Competition.  But  there's  money  in  it,  and  you'll 
get  your  share  of  it,  too  —  believe  me!  " 

"  I?  Aren't  you  taking  my  part  of  it  pretty  much 
for  granted?  " 

The  stout  man  spoke  with  telling  gravity  and  caution. 

"  I'm  trying  to  get  an  angle  on  you.  I've  got  a 
sneaking  suspicion  that  you  and  I  can  do  business  to- 
gether.    Want  to  consider  it?" 

"  AU  this  on  such  short  acquaintance?  Aren't  you 
taking  a  fearful  chance?  " 

Harmon  saw  that  the  young  man's  irises  were  ex- 
tremely luminous  and  clear ;  he  leaned  forward  seriously. 
"  I'm  simply  backing  my  hunch,  son.  In  the  long  run, 
it  pays  me  —  pays  me  well.  I've  sort  of  taken  a  fancy 
to  you  —  for  one  thing  you  don't  tell  all  you  know 
to  any  stranger  that  happens  to  come  along.  That's  a 
good  sign,  provided  you  can  loosen  up  when  the  time 
comes,  and  I've  got  an  idea  you  can.  Now,  as  far  as  I 
know,  you  may  be  the  rottenest  salesman  in  the  whole 
United  States ;  I  wouldn't  hire  your  experience  without 
some  references  and  maybe  a  surety  company  back  of 
you ;  but  I'd  hire  that  face  of  yours,  and  your  manner, 
and  your  voice,  offhand.  I'd  hire  your  front  —  not 
your  past !  And  let  me  tell  you  right  now,  son,  I  never 
made  a  trade  as  fast  as  this  before  in  my  life.  But 
there's  something  about  you  that  .  .  .  well,  to  be  spe- 
cific, I'm  thinking  of  a  pet  list  of  prospects  I've  got. 
I'd  guarantee  you  could  go  out  and  sell  one  out  of  every 


20  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

five  people  on  it  if  you  didn't  even  remember  to  tell  'em 
the  name  of  the  mine.  Sell  'em  on  your  front  —  your 
approach.  Provided  you  can  loosen  up  and  talk  when 
the  time  comes  .   .   .     Well  ?  " 

The  young  man  was  thoughtful,  and  unblinking. 

"  You're  actually  making  me  a  proposition,  are 
you.?" 

"  Absolutely,"  Harmon's  fist  on  the  table  provided 
the  exclamation  point.  "  Here  —  I  don't  know  you, 
and  you  don't  know  me,  but  if  you're  hunting  for  a 
job,  you've  found  it.  .  .  .  It's   your  next  move." 

The  young  man's  lips  parted  in  grave  humour ;  Har- 
mon was  spellbound  at  the  effect. 

*'  I'll  try  not  to  keep  you  waiting.  This  speed  of 
yours  rather  entices  me.  Besides,  if  my  face  is  my 
fortune,  I'd  better  find  it  out  as  soon  as  possible.  This 
organization  of  yours  is  in  New  York  City,  isn't  it.?  " 

"  My  headquarters  are,  but  I'd  want  you  to  work 
outside.  I've  got  one  special  town  in  mind  —  up  the 
state.  That's  where  this  list  is.  It's  always  been  one 
of  our  hardest  markets,  and  it's  got  money  to  burn. 
Can't  swing  it  somehow  —  they  don't  respond  to  any 
ordinary  selling-talk,  they're  too  hide-bound  conserva- 
tive. You  know  the  kind.  Government-bond  crowd. 
And  for  a  year  or  so  they've  been  making  war  jjrofits 
till  you  can't  see  'em  for  dust.  Manufacturing  town. 
And  I'd  like  mighty  well  to  ship  you  up  there  for  a 
month  or  two ;  give  you  time  enough  to  get  your  bear- 
ings ;  and  turn  you  loose.  You  ought  to  do  great  work 
in  a  place  like  that  —  forget  the  cut-and-dried  meth- 
ods, and  sell  your  personality.  You'd  have  a  lot  of 
magnetism  if  you  let  yourself  go  —  I  can  see  that  with- 
out   half    trying.     They    need    a    chap    like    you  — 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  ^1 

Confound  it ! "  He  halted  abruptly,  and  shook  liis 
head  in  great  bewilderment.  "  I  can't  make  it  out  at 
all !  You've  got  the  appearance  of  a  .  .  .  well,  a 
sort  of  a  strait-laced  youngster,  if  you  know  what  I 
mean,  and  yet  the  way  you  say  things,  I  — " 

The  young  man  gestured  blandly. 

"  And  the  town  you  have  in  mind.^^  " 

"  It's  Syracuse,  New  York." 

"Syracuse.''"  The  young  man's  chin  was  squared 
by  a  ruler,  and  noticeably  thrust  forward. 

"Yes;  know  anybody  there?  " 

Hilliard  laughed  unpleasantly,  and  resumed  his 
former  attitude. 

"  Why,  it  so  happens,"  he  said,  biting  the  words  off 
sharply,  "  that  I  was  born  and  brought  up  in  Syracuse, 
and  if  there's  any  one  place  in  the  world  I  care  less 
about  than  any  other  place,  that's  the  one  .  .  .  I'm 
sorry,  but  I'm  afraid  we're  at  cross-purposes  from 
here  on." 

Harmon  showed  his  vexation.  "  What's  the  mat- 
ter? Haven't  you  kept  on  good  terms  with  your  old 
friends?  " 

"  No." 

Harmon  frowned. 

"  Well,  is  it  so  bad  you  couldn't  do  any  business 
there?     How  do  they  remember  you?  " 

The  young  man  regarded  him  stonily  for  an  instant; 
then  gradually  a  far-away  expression  crept  into  his 
eyes;  he  started;  and  caught  his  breath. 

"  I'll  let  you  judge  for  yourself."  He  brought  out 
a  flat  leather  wallet,  from  which  he  extracted  a  tiny 
photograph,  torn  from  an  old  passport.  "  What  do 
you  think  of  that  ?  " 


22  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

Harmon  scanned  it  superficially. 

*'  Nice  looking  boy.     Who  is  he?  " 

"  It  was  taken  about  two  years  ago,"  said  Hilliard, 
resting  his  elbows  on  the  table.  "  You  wanted  to  know 
how  they  remember  me,  so  I'm  showing  you.  That's 
a  photograph  of  me  —  taken  two  years  ago." 

"  Impossible  !  "  Harmon  snorted  it.  "  That  doesn't 
look  any  more  like  you  than  .  .  .  than  /  do !  Let's 
omit  the  comedy  ;  I'm  talking  business  !  " 

The  young  man's  mouth  curled.  "  Don't  be  mis- 
taken, Mr.  Harmon  —  there's  ver}'^  little  joking  in  me 
when  I  ever  mention  Syracuse."  Harmon  shivered  at 
the  tone,  but  waved  the  photograph  in  scoffing  accusa- 
tion. 

"  You're  not  trying  to  sit  there  and  tell  me  — " 

"  I  told  you  I  was  in  hospital  for  nearly  a  year,  I 
believe,"  said  Hilliard  icily.  "  It  was  shrapnel  — 
across  the  face.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  didn't  have 
much  of  any  face  left.  Oh  —  I'll  spare  you  the  de- 
tails —  don't  worry."  Harmon  had  turned  white. 
"  But  the  surgeons  —  they're  pretty  clever.  Yes  — 
they're  clever ! "  Hilliard's  eyes  were  needle-points. 
"  They've  got  so  they  can  take  almost  any  old  kind  of 
foundation,  and  build  up  on  it.  They  make  a  man 
over  from  his  own  photograph.  In  my  own  case,  I  pre- 
ferred it  differently.  So  when  they  asked  me  for  some- 
thing to  use  as  a  pattern  in  remodelling  me,  I  gave  'em 
this !  "  He  tossed  out  a  picture  postcard,  soiled  and 
frayed.  "  Well,  that's  where  the  trouble  began.  They 
cursed  me  up  and  down  for  a  .  .  .  still,  that  part  of 
it  won't  interest  you!^^  His  eyes  were  blazing  now, 
and  his  voice  shook  with  passion.  "  Naturally,  I  hadn't 
meant  it  as  damned  literal  as  all  that  .  .  .  but  they  had 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  23 

me  under  ether  before  I  could  help  mjself  .  .  .  and 
thej  went  through  with  it  .  .  .  and  cursed  me  some 
more  afterwards.  .  .  .  Thej  couldn't  copy  it  exactly,  of 
course,  but  they  did  the  best  they  could.  .  .  .  Gloated 
over  it!  Took  infinite  pains  to  make  it  perfect  .  .  . 
and  sneered  at  me  while  they  did  it !  Sneered  —  and 
laughed.  Not  when  they  thought  I  could  hear,  but 
to  themselves !  Laughed,  and  then  stopped  laughing, 
and  called  me  things  that  gentlemen  don't  say.  .  .  . 
Well,  you've  got  the  results  in  front  of  you.  That's 
what  I  was  —  and  that's  what  I  am !  What's  your 
opinion  now?  "  The  last  sentence  came  snarling 
through  set  teeth. 

The  broker's  respiration  had  quickened,  and  horror 
was  tugging  at  his  hair-roots.  His  pupils  had  dilated 
grossly ;  his  eyes  wandered  vacantly  from  the  photo- 
graph to  the  postcard  and  back  to  Hilliard's  face. 
His  whole  imagination  was  pinned  down  and  crushed; 
he  swore  softly  under  his  breath,  and  wet  his  lips. 

"  It's  a  ...  a  miracle ! "  he  stammered.  "  A 
miracle !  .   .   ." 

"  The  photograph,"  said  Hilliard  harshly,  "  is  the 
way  they  remember  me  up  in  Syracuse.  Do  you  think 
they'd  ever  recognize  me  now?  ** 

"  It's  a  miracle  .  .  .  it's  paralysing !  .  .  ,"  Har- 
mon swallowed  hard,  and  looked  down  almost  fearfully 
at  the  time-worn  postcard.  "  There's  so  much  differ- 
ence, ,  .  .  nobody'd  ever  think  of  it  without  knowing 
.  .  .  but  when  you  see  the  original  .  .  .  !  It  ...  it 
knocks  me  all  in  a  heap!  It's  staggering!  And 
they  did  that  to  3'ou!  Good  God!  Just  to  think 
they  could  do  that  to  you!  ,  .  .  I've  got  to  have  a 
driiik!" 


24  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

Hilliard  motioned  impatiently,  but  his  fit  of  rage 
was  slowly  going  down. 

"  There's  no  miracle  about  it  at  all.  It  was  good 
plastic  surgery.  If  they'd  sent  me  out  looking  as  I 
used  to,  you  wouldn't  call  it  a  miracle,  would  you? 
No.  It's  only  what  they  did  do  that  makes  it  stag- 
gering. But  it's  clever  —  oh,  yes, —  clever  1  Hellishly 
clever !  And  you  can  see  for  yourself  how  few  marks 
of  it  there  are."  He  drew  a  long  breath,  and  managed 
to  smile  again ;  but  the  effect  was  shocking,  for  while 
his  features  were  composed  and  kindly,  his  eyes  were 
venomous.  "  Well,  I  certainly  never  intended  to  go 
to  Syracuse  again  for  pleasure,  but  if  there's  enough 
compensation  to  pay  for  the  risk,  I'm  not  afraid  to 
tr}'  it  on  .  .  .  business."  His  accent  sent  cold  chills 
coursing  up  and  down  Harmon's  spine.  "  In  fact,  now 
that  I  think  of  it,  it  ought  to  be  rather  .  .  .  amus- 
ing!" 

The  broker  was  striving  to  pull  himself  together. 

"  But  why  on  earth  didn't  you  have  'em  use  your 
own  picture  for  a  copy  ...  if  they're  as  clever  as  .  .  . 
Oh ! "  He  stopped  short,  and  his  chin  dropped. 
"  Oh!     Is  that  the  answer." 

"  Yes,"  said  Hilliard,  reclaiming  the  two  photo- 
graphs. "  That's  the  answer.  I  didn't  mind  start- 
ing over  again,  only  — "  He  sighed  and  inhaled  might- 
ily. *'  Only  take  my  advice,  Mr.  Harmon,  and  don't 
lose  your  temper  just  before  an  operation." 

Harmon  breathed  more  freely,  but  he  was  still  in 
violent  intellectual  distress.  His  round  face  was  vapid 
with  awe,  and  he  was  tongueing  his  lips  in  constant 
nervousness,  for  the  complete  possibility  of  the  situation 
was  creeping  over  him. 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  25 

"  If  that's  the  case,"  he  ventured,  "  why  .  .  .  they 
surely  needn't  recognize  your  name  either,  Mr.  Hilliard, 
need  they?  I  mean,  if  you  had  any  idea  of  going  back 
to  your  home  town  incognito,  as  it  were  — " 

"  They  wouldn't  recognize  anything  about  me,"  said 
Hilliard  dryly.  His  teeth,  showing  at  the  moment, 
were  white  and  regular  as  a  young  wolf's.  "  We  won't 
discuss  that  side  of  it  just  now,  though.  But  if  I  go 
back,  I'm  incognito  —  and  don't  make  any  mistake 
about  it.  That's  what  appeals  to  me  —  that's  why 
I'm  listening  to  you.     Is  that  quite  clear?  " 

Harmon  swallowed  again. 

"They'd  recognize  your  voice,  wouldn't  they?" 

"  I  had  to  get  used  to  this  one  myself.  Something 
went  wrong  with  my  vocal  chords,  and  the  antrum  on 
both  sides  was  hurt ;  it  seemed  to  have  an  effect  like 
changing  a  sounding-board." 

"  So !  And  you  used  to  be  fatter  in  the  face,  didn't 
you?     How  about  your  general  size,  and  so  on?" 

"  I've  taken  on  twenty-five  pounds ;  my  face  is  a 
lot  thinner,  but  there's  a  reason.  It  hasn't  grown  on 
me;  it  was  manufactured.  Incidentally,  while  I  think 
of  it  mj^  stride's  shortened  six  inches.  That's  another 
identification  gone.  Bullet  in  my  knee.  I  don't  ex- 
actly limp,  but — " 

Harmon  was  beaming  now,  and  flushed  with  excite- 
ment. 

"That's  great!  Oh!  that's  wonderful!  Wonder- 
ful! Nobody '11  know  you  from  Adam!  Thunder  and 
lightning,  what  a  chance  —  what  a  chance !  Hold  on 
—  how  well  do  you  know  the  big  men  in  Syracuse? 
Well  enough  to  know  what  their  weak  points  are? 
Well  enough  to  know  how  to  approach  'em?     Know 


S6  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

Cullen?  Know  the  Durants?  Know  Embree  and  ^Ic- 
Eachern  and  Cooke?     Know — " 

"  At  one  time,"  said  Milliard,  with  sudden  tragcd}^ 
in  his  eyes,  "  all  those  people  you've  just  named  were 
about  the  closest  friends  I  had  in  the  world." 

"  Well,  if  you've  got  nerve  enough  to  try  to  pass 
yourself  off  as  a  stranger^  wliy  — " 

"  Just  a  moment !  "  The  3'oung  man's  gesture,  al- 
though calm,  was  nevertheless  commanding.  "  Is  that 
a  genuine  offer  you  made  me  a  while  ago  ?  " 

"  It's  as  good  as  gold  until  you  turn  it  down.  And 
if  you're  willing  to  go  up  there,  and  — " 

"  That'll  do.  Now  listen !  I  lived  in  ^,'racuse 
twenty-six  years !  If  I  ever  had  any  friends  there  I've 
lost  'em  now.     I  — " 

"Whose  fault  was  it?" 

"Whose  fault?     Don't  make  me  laugh!" 

"Not  yours,  then?" 

"  Partly  —  not  altogether.     That  isn't  the  point." 

"Not  a  question  of  money,  was  it?" 

"  Not  that  —  thank  the  Lord !  " 

"Booze?" 

"  Why  — "  Hilliard's  pupils  were  concentrated. 
"  That's  immaterial.  The  point  is  that  my  friends  and 
I  aren't  on  speaking  terms." 

"  Go  ahead,"  said  Harmon,  satisfied.  "  Do  they 
know  you  went  to  France?  " 

"  They  don't  know  anj^thing.  I  left  betvveen  two 
days,  I've  never  written  anybody  so  much  as  a  line 
to  tell  w^here  I  was,  or  what  I  was  doing.  I  went  over 
on  a  tramp.  A  French  lieutenant  got  me  into  the 
Army,  and  I  didn't  give  a  damn  whether  I  got  killed 
or  not  —  and  then  I  got  this."     His  hand  was  on  his 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  ^7 

cheek,  where  a  long  scar  crossed  ifc.  "  And  for  over  a 
jear  I've  been  hoping  that  somehow,  some  time,  I  could 
get  back  at  a  few  of  those  men  .  .  .  principally  Cullen 
and  Durant  and  McEachern.  Get  back  hard  —  you 
understand!  Perhaps  this  suggestion  of  yours  will  give 
me  the  opening.  Perhaps  it  will.  That's  \vliat  I'm 
wondering.     I'm  thinking  it  over.     That's  all." 

Harmon  controlled  himself ;  his  voice,  when  it  came, 
was  low  and  seductive. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  could  you  get  back  any  harder  at 
people  who  haven't  treated  you  right  than  by  going 
back  up  there  and  making  good.'*  By  putting  some- 
thing over  on  'era, —  something  big,  you  understand  — - 
and  making  those  fellows  look  cheap?  By  establishing 
yourself  first,  and  keeping  what's  happened  to  you  a 
secret,  and  building  yourself  a  new  reputation  around 
your  new  looks?  And  getting  solid  with  the  folks  on  a 
new  basis?  Start  fresh,  and  be  somebod}^?  And  make 
a  pile  of  money  for  yourself  in  the  meantime?  That's 
better  than  using  a  club  on  'em,  isn't  it?  Coals  of 
fire,  man,  coals  of  fire !  Show  'em  what  you  can  do  — 
and  take  your  satisfaction  in  that.  Don't  fight  your 
enemies  —  you  don't  have  to !  Make  a  profit  out  of 
'em!  And  then  ...  oh  well,  I  don't  care  what  you 
do  after  that  —  come  out  in  the  open  and  give  'em  the 
ha-ha  or  not,  just  as  you  like.  Could  anything  be  a 
neater  little  come-back  than  that?  More  sort  of 
Biblical  and  thorough?     Poetic  justice?     Could  it?" 

Hilliard  was  still  alert  and  rigid. 

"  There's  a  good  selling  argument?  And  something 
good  to  sell?  " 

"  As  straight  as  a  shoestring,  and  as  sure  as  you're 
a  foot  high.     And  if  you  can't  do  business   on   this 


«8  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

basis,  you  couldn't  sell  gold  eagles  for  a  dollar  apiece! 
That's  flat!'' 

"So  I  could  go  back  —  and  honestly  make  good? 
All  the  way?  Prove  what  I  can  do?  And  not  have 
any  back-fire  in  it?  " 

"  And  have  a  chance,"  said  Harmon,  nodding,  "  to 
put  yourself  in  right  again.  That's  what  my  whole 
idea  was."  His  intonation,  as  he  watched  the  wonder- 
fully appealing  face  across  the  table,  was  positively  be* 
seeching.  "  You'll  never  have  the  opportunity  again. 
You  might  meet  somebody  you  know  tomorrow,  and  give 
yourself  away  —  and  then  it's  gone !  If  you're  going 
to  cash  in  on  your  hard  luck,  boy,  you've  got  to  speak 
up.  That's  viy  policy.  Cash  in  on  this  thing  the 
doctors  did  for  you !  Let's  play  it  together,  son.  If 
it's  a  sort  of  whitewashing  you  want,  I'll  help  you.  .  .  . 
I'U  give  you  the  bucket  and  the  brush,  and  you  go  up 
and  go  to  work.  I  don't  care  a  continental  what  you 
did  to  get  in  wrong  in  Syracuse  —  it's  success  that 
counts.  Nothing  else  but  success.  And  that's  meas- 
ured by  the  money  you  make,  and  how  you  make  it. 
You  know  the  crowd,  and  they  don't  know  you,  and 
you  can  create  your  success.  Then  after  that  — 
whatever  you  please.   ...  Is  it  a  bargain?" 

Hilliard  shut  his  teeth  tight;  reflected;  yielded  ab- 
ruptly. 

"  It's  a  bargain  I  "  he  said.     "  I'm  with  you !  " 

"Good!     Now—" 

"  One  moment !  Let's  be  frank  with  each  other. 
Don't  get  any  impression  that  I've  done  anything 
that's  — " 

"  Mr.  Hilliard,  you  don't  have  to  talk  like  that  to  me! 
I've  had  you  sized  up  from  the  start,  haven't  I  ?  " 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  29 

"  Yes,  but  I  wanted  you  to  know  — " 

"  But  I  do  know,  son !  Wild  oats,  sort  of.  Am  I 
right,  or  am  I  wrong?  That's  why  I'm  banking  on 
you.  People  turned  up  their  noses,  maybe.  Said 
things.  Gossip.  /  know  that  sort  of  business.  And 
you're  sore  —  naturally.  Well,  this'll  poultice  every- 
body, including  yourself.  Go  on  back  to  your  old 
friends.  You're  a  new  man:  they  won't  know  you. 
Make  'em  new  friends  —  and  there  you  are." 

Hilliard,  tremendously  excited  in  spite  of  himself, 
laughed  aloud. 

"  It's  better  than  what  I'd  planned  to  do,  Mr.  Har- 
mon.    I  — " 

"  Yes  —  you'd  have  wanted  to  start  a  riot,  I  sup- 
pose. What  good  would  that  do.'^  Oh,  here's  another 
suggestion.  What  would  you  say  to  no  salary  at  all, 
twenty  percent  commission,  and  no  limit  to  your  ex- 
pense account.''  But  you  pay  back  half  of  your  ex- 
penses out  of  your  earned  commissions.  On  —  say,  a 
three  month's  try-out.     How  does  that  strike  you  ?  " 

**  It  .  .  .  why,  I  don't  see  what  you're  driving  at." 

"  Because,"  said  Harmon,  "  you're  worth  more  than 
I  thought  you  were.  How  do  I  know.^*  I've  watched 
your  eyes,  son!  You're  going  into  Syracuse  with  the 
finest  plan,  the  finest  front  and  the  finest  opportunity 
I've  ever  dreamed  of  in  all  my  life !  And  besides  that, 
you've  got  a  spur  that  even  /  couldn't  give  you.  .  .  . 
How  are  you  fixed  for  money  ?  " 

"  I'm  not  fixed  at  all.     I'm  broke." 

Harmon  fished  for  his  bill-book,  and  folded  two  notes 
into  a  small  compass. 

*'  Here !  Bind  the  bargain.  Don't  worry  —  it's  an 
advance.     I  know  who  I  can  trust  —  that's  ray  longest 


30  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

suit,  son.  Give  me  a  receipt,  if  you  like.  Better  not 
speak  to  me  again  until  we  land.  Never  know  who's 
aboard  that  might  see  3^ou  later.  Come  to  my  office 
at  ten  o'clock  the  morning  after  we're  docked.  And  — " 
He  laughed  in  patent  relief.  "  You  know,  son,"  he 
said,  "  I'm  a  pretty  wise  old  bird,  and  there's  not  much 
that  fools  me,  but  .  .  .  right  up  to  the  last  second,  I 
wasn't  quite  sure  whether  you'd  take  that  job  or  not. 
If  the  surgeon  that  mended  you  could  only  have  doc- 
tored your  eyes,  son  —  if  he  could  only  have  doctored 
your  eyes  !  Whew  !  "  He  stared  again  at  Hilliard,  and 
nodded  soberly.  "  Wonderful  —  perfectly  wonderful," 
he  said,  fascinated.  "  When  you  smile  at  me  like  that, 
I  sort  of  feel  as  though  I  ought  to  get  up  and  take 
off  my  hat  and  apologize  to  you,  and  I'm  hanged  if  I 
know  what  for.  .  .  .  Perhaps  they  overdid  it  a  trifle 
.  .  .  copied  that  picture  too  well  .  .  .  why  don't  you 
see  if  you  can't  grow  a  moustache  ...   ?  ^^ 


Ill 


ACCORDING  to  the  railway  schedule,  the  journey 
from  New  York  should  have  taken  about  six 
hours;  as  a  matter  of  fact,  it  took  seven,  and  yet  to 
Hilliard,  who  hadn't  once  left  the  observation  plat- 
form, it  was  accomplished  with  the  speed  of  a  projectile. 
The  dramatic  value  of  his  purpose  had  seized  him,  and 
partly  on  this  account,  and  partly  because  he  was  go- 
ing home,  he  was  temporarily  relieved  of  perceptive 
judgment,  whether  of  time,  space,  or  attendant  circum- 
stances. 

Harmon,  very  masterful  and  confident,  had  accom- 
panied him  uptown  in  a  taxicab,  and  filled  each  mo- 
ment to  its  brim  with  counsel  and  encouragement. 

"  Now,  whatever  else  you  do,  son,"  Harmon  had 
adjured  him,  "  stick  to  the  story!  First,  last,  and  al- 
ways—  you  stick  to  the  story!  It's  your  own  busi- 
ness, in  a  way;  and  in  another  way,  it's  my  business; 
but  you  keep  your  head  clear  and  don't  let  anybody 
shake  you  on  the  facts,  and  we're  both  all  right.  Of 
course,  you're  starting  out  by  lying  —  but  it's  a  good 
lie.  You're  justified.  As  far's  the  rest  of  the  world's 
concerned,  you're  a  new  man.  You're  just  born.  Well, 
you've  got  a  perfect  right  to  be  whatever  you  want  to 
be.  Nobody  can  prove  you  aren't  what  you  say  you 
are.  And  it  isn't  everybody  that  gets  a  second  shot  at 
life,  either  —  but  if  they  all  did,  I  guess  about  a  hun- 
dred and  one  percent  of  us  would  try  almighty  hard 
to  be  pretty  different.  .  .  .  Now  a  salesman's  got  a 

31 


82  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

sort  of  poetic  license,  son.  You've  got  to  build  up  a 
reputation,  and  you'll  certainly  have  to  do  some  quick 
thinking  not  to  ball  up  your  story.  But  stick  to  it! 
Stick  to  it  no  matter  if  you  have  to  overdraw  your 
imagination  every  hour  in  every  day.  Be  consistent. 
And  don't  lose  your  nerve,  because  the  thing's  abso- 
lutely sure.  .  .  .  Hello!  Didn't  realize  we'd  come  up 
so  fast.  .  .  .  No,  you  fumble,  and  I'll  pay  I  .  .  ." 

"  All  I'm  afraid  of,"  Hilliard  had  said,  as  they  fol- 
lowed the  porter  down  to  the  crowded  ramp,  "  is  the 
first  two  days.  After  that,  I  won't  lose  my  nerve  —  I 
can't!  But  ...  it  isn't  going  to  be  easy,  Mr.  Har- 
mon —  not  for  the  first  two  days." 

"  Nonsense !     Where's  the  flaw  in  it  ?  " 

*'  Well  —  nowhere  that  /  can  see." 

"  Nor  I,  either.  ...  I  won't  go  down  to  the  train 
with  you,  Hilliard,  I'll  say  good-bye  here.  .  .  .  Well, 
don't  forget  you  can't  lose,  provided  you  keep  your 
head  clear.  You've  got  money  enough  to  last  a  month ; 
don't  be  too  close  with  it.  Write  when  you  want  more. 
.  .  .  Now,  just  a  word  of  suggestion;  I  wouldn't  drink 
much  of  any,  and  — " 

"  I  don't  intend  to  drink  at  all." 

"Well,  I  wouldn't  go  that  far,  son!  Be  cosmopoli- 
tan. Mix  with  all  classes  —  drink  just  enough  so  you 
won't  be  a  wet-blanket  and  not  enough  so  you're  a 
sponge.  Sort  of  betwixt  and  between.  And  don't  you 
worry  about  things.  You're  inclined  to  worry;  I've 
noticed  that.  But  in  view  of  what  3^our  intentions  are, 
every  inch  of  this  scheme's  justified.  Poetic  license,  as 
I  said  before.  Be  a  good  salesman.  And,  by  the  way, 
good  salesmen  report  pretty  often  to  the  main  office." 

"  I'll  keep  you  posted,  Mr.  Harmon." 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  33 

"  I  know  you  will.  Well,  it's  close  to  train-time. 
.  .  .  Just  remember  these  three  things:  One,  capital- 
ize your  experience,  and  fill  'em  fuU  of  war-talk  — 
they'll  love  it ;  Two,  capitalize  your  position,  and  stick 
to  your  story  —  they'll  swallow  it  whole,  and  never 
dream  of  the  answer;  Three,  capitalize  your  face,  and 
smile,  man,  smile!  "  Here  he  had  planted  his  hand  be- 
tween Hilliard's  shoulder-blades  with  a  thump  which 
was  meant  to  be  fraternal  and  heartening.  "  And 
we'll  both  make  good  until  the  cows  come  home  —  and 
I  think  I  hear  'em  coming.  Don't  forget  —  they  can't 
stop  you!  It's  your  second  shot  at  life,  and  you've 
got  the  cards  stacked  the  way  you  want  'em.  Think  of 
that,  boy  —  you're  pla3ang  it  alone  with  a  pat  hand, 
and  they  cant  stop  you !  " 

"  The  only  thing,"  HHhard  had  said,  "  is  the  .  .  . 
the  story !  " 

**  Damn  it,  Hilliard,  what's  the  matter  with  you.'^ 
Aren't  you  justified?  " 

"  Y-e-e-s,  but  — " 

"But  what?" 

"  So  much  of  it  sounds  unnecessary  to  me  —  every 
now  and  then.  I  wish  we  could  have  thought  up  some- 
thing else,  that's  all." 

"Well,  Ji<i  we.?" 

"  No,  but  — " 

"  Then  don't  be  a  rank  quitter !  It  was  your  own 
idea ;  and  /  say  it's  darned  clever ;  stand  up  to  it.  You 
will,  won't  you  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I'll  do  that,  Mr.  Harmon.     I've  got  to." 

"Yes,  you've  got  to.  And  just  keep  smiling,  son; 
that's  all.  That's  what  I  hired  you  for  —  start  ofF 
smiling,  and  the  battle's  half  won  already.  .  .  .  That's 


d4t  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

it !  Keep  your  nerve,  son !  .  .  .  Good-bye ! "  And 
here  he  had  staggered  Hilliard  by  another  friendly 
buffet  between  the  shoulder  blades,  and  swung  him 
cordially  into  the  runway,  and  disappeared  in  the 
general  direction  of  the  Biltmore  bar. 

On  the  observation  platform,  Hilliard  had  ensconced 
himself  behind  a  newspaper  and  a  cigar,  and  tried 
to  hold  his  emotions  and  his  imagination  in  check.  But 
the  newspaper  had  lost  its  interest  for  him  before  the 
last  of  the  numbered  streets  had  flitted  by,  and  as  for 
the  cigar,  its  flavour  staled  in  less  than  a  quarter  mile. 
His  thoughts  had  turned  sharply  inward ;  there  was  no 
need  of  any  divertisement  to  keep  his  mind  completely 
occupied.  His  whole  consciousness,  while  apparently 
distilled  upon  the  passing  landscape,  was  circling  end- 
lessly about  his  own  distractions ;  and  yet,  although 
he  had  intermittent  spasms  of  conscience,  lie  entertained 
no  plan  of  surrender  to  them.  Each  milestone  by  the 
right-of-way  was  as  a  monument  to  his  self-respect, 
which  had  died  a  fortnight  ago,  and  yet  (even  in  his 
apprehension)  he  was  as  resolute  as  when  he  had 
planned  its  burial. 

His  purpose,  now  that  it  was  crystallized,  brought 
him  no  aftermath  of  shame  for  what  he  was  about  to 
do  —  he  was  conscience-stricken  only  in  respect  to 
what  he  had  done  already,  long  ago ;  and  his  nervous- 
ness was  due  merely  to  his  fear  that  he  might  fail  in 
his  purpose. 

Fortunately,  he  had  the  observation-platform  to  him- 
self. The  solitude,  and  the  still  beauty  of  the  Hudson 
and  the  hills  beyond,  loaned  him  at  length  a  calmer 
spirit  and  a  sturdy  resolution.  He  found  himself  trans- 
lating the  valleys  and  uplands  into  the  topography  of 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  S5 

war;  he  laughed  inwardly,  and  was  relieved  by  the 
discovery  that  he  could  mentally  relax.  After  all, 
what  was  there  to  discourage  him?  He  had  worked  out 
a  system  of  campaign  as  clear,  as  definite,  and  as  in- 
exorable as  any  field-marshal  could  ever  hope  to  devise 
—  and  perfect.  There  was  nothing  for  him  to  regret, 
and  little  for  him  to  dread.  He  was  simply  bringing 
home  one  vital  principle  of  trench  fighting  —  to  rely 
on  indirect  fire.  That  was  it  —  to  fight !  To  fight 
for  reputation  lost,  and  to  defend  his  new  advantage 
gained.  It  was  nothing  but  a  question  of  tactics.  It 
was  nothing  but  a  matter  of  expediency.  The  end 
would  ampl}^  justify  the  means ;  or  —  if  the  end  by  any 
chance  proved  to  be  disastrous,  why,  there  was  another 
principle  he  must  remember  —  no  quarter  given  or 
asked  for.  And  as  Albany  dropped  behind,  and  Am- 
sterdam fled  into  the  East,  and  Utica  went  out  of  sight 
in  the  gathering  dusk,  he  was  increasingly  steadfast  in 
his  warlike  determination. 

"  I'll  teach  'era,"  he  said  unsmilingly  to  the  blurred 
landscape.  "  P\\  show  'em  whether  I  can  make  good  or 
not !     Time !     Time  !     That's  all  I  want  —  time !  " 

To  his  vast  perplexity,  however,  he  had  a  very  differ- 
ent and  a  very  disquieting  sensation  when  the  train 
slowed  for  East  Syracuse,  where  numerous  factories  and 
furnaces  crowd  in  upon  the  right  of  way.  They  were 
hideous  infernos,  these  stewing,  belching  factories,  and 
he  had  always  loathed  them  ;  but  tonight,  to  his  disen- 
franchised soul,  they  were  suddenlj^  a  visible  part  of  the 
community  he  once  had  lived  in,  and  he  looked  upon 
them  with  a  strange  throb  of  homesickness  in  his  breast. 
And  then  the  express  was  running  through  twin  lines  of 
w^orkmen's  houses,  shabby  and  sordid,  but  capable  of 


S6  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

stirring  up  forgotten  memories  in  Hilliard's  brain,  for 
this  was  the  main  entrance  to  the  city,  from  the  East. 
It  was  a  grimy  portal,  but  a  portal  nevertheless.  And 
then  the  City  Hall,  bidding  him  its  brief,  impersonal 
welcome !  The  quadruple  lamps  of  the  cross  streets ! 
The  jeweller's,  where  once  he  had  bought  a  ring  .  .  .  the 
canal,  where,  at  the  end  of  a  headlong  walk  one  des- 
perate night,  he  had  later  hurled  it!  The  familiar, 
sooty,  roaring,  confusing  station !  It  was  Syracuse  — 
the  city  which  had  shamed  him  into  war !  And  as  he 
descended  calmly  to  the  splintered  platform,  he  was 
amazed  and  baffled  by  the  realization  that  he  loved  it ! 

At  the  nearest  curbstone,  among  the  private  cars  and 
taxicabs,  a  motor  omnibus  bore  on  its  side  the  name  of 
the  newest  hotel,  which  was  his  immediate  objective;  but 
for  reasons  which  he  couldn't  have  explained,  he  avoided 
it,  and  signalled  to  a  taxi.  He  had  all  an  ardent  lover's 
desire  for  privacy  at  this  first  meeting  after  many 
months ;  his  glance,  as  it  fell  upon  the  least  romantic  of 
his  surroundings,  was  eager,  caressing.  He  sat  upon 
the  edge  of  the  seat,  devouring  with  his  eyes  each  fa- 
miliar landmark  that  he  passed,  and  finding  that  the 
mere  recognition  carried  pain.  The  speed  of  the  jour- 
ney distressed  him  - —  he  could  have  prolonged  it  infi- 
nitely, and  feasted  his  recollection  upon  the  details  that 
a  year  or  two  ago  he  had  scarcely  noticed.  He  craned 
his  neck,  staring  at  passers-by,  and  struggling  to  detect 
a  face  he  could  remember.  He  was  so  swayed  by  his  un- 
expected emotions  that  even  a  display-window  in  a  shop 
he  had  liked  to  patronize  gave  him  sensations  which 
earlier  in  the  afternoon  he  had  thought  he  had  discarded 
for  ever. 

As  the  car  came  to  a  standstill  at  the  motor  entrance 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  S7 

to  the  hotel,  he  managed  by  great  exercise  of  will-power 
to  regain  his  mood  of  arrogant  conquest,  and  it  was 
imperative  for  him  to  regain  it,  inasmuch  as  his  first 
ordeal  was  so  soon  to  come.  More  than  that,  he  had  an 
ancient  grudge  against  this  hostelry,  for  it  had  succes- 
sively declined  to  continue  his  credit,  refused  to  honour 
his  checks,  and,  towards  the  last,  had  politely  suggested 
that  he  refresh  himself  somewhere  else.  One  of  his  most 
galling  memories  was  connected  with  this  very  entrance ; 
his  cheeks  grew  hot  as  he  fought  the  vision  down. 

**  Now!  '*  said  Hilliard,  on  the  outer  threshold.  His 
feeling,  as  he  went  into  the  brilliant  lights  of  the  cor- 
ridor, was  as  though  he  had  plunged  from  a  spring- 
board into  deep  water. 

He  knew,  from  meticulous  study  and  practice,  the  full 
effect  of  his  manner,  which  was  distinguished,  patrician. 
He  knew  the  almost  irresistible  magnetism  which  had 
befallen  him  by  accident.  He  had  been  prepared  —  in 
his  own  imagination  —  for  the  battery  of  interest  which 
was  promptly  trained  upon  him.  And  yet,  as  he  pur- 
sued his  luggage  towards  the  desk,  he  faltered  in  his 
pride,  he  felt  as  though  the  sorrowful  eyes  of  all  Syra- 
cuse were  riveted  upon  him ;  the  well-recalled  surround- 
ings unmanned  him,  and  he  was  impelled  to  halt,  lift  up 
his  hands  in  token  of  surrender,  and  to  cry  out :  "  This 
is  not  I !  This  is  not  I !  It  is  the  man  I  might  have 
been  —  if  you  and  I  had  understood  each  other !  "  So 
great  was  his  anguish  that  in  that  moment  he  honestly 
believed  that  it  was  the  equal  fault  of  the  city,  and  of 
himself,  that  he  had  gone  forth  discredited. 

Behind  the  desk  stood  a  clerk  and  —  Hilliard's  heart 
tripped  —  the  manager  who  had  tendered  him  the  ulti- 
matum.    Hilliard's  pen  spilt  a  blot  of  ink  on  the  reg- 


38  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

ister ;  his  ears  were  tuned  for  the  speech  of  recognition 
which  would  blast  his  dreams  of  triumph,  and  send  him 
off  again  in  multiplied  disgrace. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  the  clerk  with  extreme  deference, 
"  and  about  what  price,  sir?  " 

The  manager,  who  had  been  scrutinizing  Hilliard  in- 
tently, whispered  something  to  the  clerk ;  the  clerk  bit 
his  lip  and  looked  up  sharply ;  the  prodigal  winced,  and 
stiffened.  "  Parlor  C  —  ten  dollars?  "  asked  the  clerk. 
"  Very  comfortable  room,  sir.  .  .  .  Front !  " 

The  manager,  as  Hilliard  retreated,  said  impatiently 
to  the  clerk :  "  What's  the  matter  with  you,  Jimm}', 
anyway?  Don't  you  know  how  to  size  up  a  man  yet? 
Don't  ask  a  man  like  that  what  he'll  have  —  tell  'em 
what  we've  got !  " 

Upstairs,  Hilliard  went  limp  from  the  reaction.  He 
had  been  positive  of  himself,  he  had  gone  over  the  com- 
parisons time  and  time  again ;  he  knew  that  he  was  a 
stranger  in  figure,  in  gait,  in  voice,  in  countenance ;  still, 
at  the  instant  of  trial  he  had  shuddered  in  guilty  appre- 
hension, and  heard  in  fancy  the  voice  of  accusation. 
He  had  doubted  what  he  knew  —  and  this  was  proof  of 
his  lack  of  innocence.  But  tlie  manager  —  who  two 
years  ago  had  called  him  by  his  first  name  —  the  man- 
ager had  looked  him  full  in  the  face,  and  made  not  the 
faintest  sign  of  recognition !  Hilliard  smiled  weakly  at 
himself  in  the  mirror,  and  wondered  if  he  could  dare  to 
take  the  victory  as  an  omen.      He  thought  lie  could. 

It  was  in  improved  confidence,  then,  that  he  went  down 
to  dinner ;  and  deliberately  chose  a  central  seat  in  the 
most  popular  of  the  three  available  rooms.  He  was 
actively  eager  to  be  observed;  now  that  he  had  passed 
his  first  examination,  he  craved  test  after  test ;  no  inqui- 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  39 

sition  could  be  too  urgent  for  him.  And  at  the  nearest 
table  sat  a  busincss-raan  he  knew,  and  a  girl  he  knew; 
from  their  matter-of-fact  attentiveness,  he  judged  that 
they  had  been  married  during  his  absence;  they  gazed 
interminably  at  him,  but  only  in  admiration.  He  men- 
tally checked  off  his  list  —  that  made  a  trio  of  old  ac- 
quaintances who  failed  to  know  him.  Facing  him,  a 
dozen  feet  away,  sat  a  man  who  had  been  Hilliard's  em- 
ployer for  an  epochal  six  weeks  —  this  man,  too,  was 
obviously  interested,  but  unenlightened.  Four !  A  din- 
ner party,  comprising  six  girls  and  six  young  men, 
filed  gaily  past  him;  every  one  of  the  twelve  he  had 
known  well,  some  of  them  intimately;  they  looked  down 
at  him  in  passing,  and,  without  exception,  went  on  in 
ignorance.  A  tiny  roseleaf  of  a  girl  was  rather  notice- 
abh^  attracted  to  him ;  she  spoke  to  her  partner,  who 
turned,  and  stared,  and  nodded  in  tlie  bored  fashion  of 
any  escort  to  whom  a  handsome  stranger  is  pointed  out; 
and  Hilliard  could  have  laughed  aloud  at  the  irony  of 
the  incident.  They  had  known  each  other  for  a  dozen 
years,  that  girl  and  HiUiard ;  in  the  dozen  and  first,  her 
mother  had  forbidden  him  her  house, —  and  that  made 
sixteen  victims,  and  there  was  hardly  any  use  of  count- 
ing further. 

He  was  suffused  b}'  the  consciousness  of  dramatic  suc- 
cess, and  he  would  have  given  much  to  have  had  a  con- 
fidant to  share  it.  The  whole  situation  was  immense; 
there  was  comedy  in  it,  but  there  was  seriousness  in  it, 
too;  in  one  moment,  he  was  silently  convulsed;  in  the 
next,  cold  beads  of  perspiration  stood  on  his  forehead. 
He  was  playing  for  stakes  which  a  buffoon  ought  not  to 
afford ;  and  at  the  same  time,  he  had  created  an  atmos- 
phere which  wasn't  comfortable  for  a  culprit.     If  Har- 


40  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

raon  had  only  been  there  ...  if  there  were  only  some 
one  to  talk  to,  some  one  to  act  as  counterfoil.  It  was 
all  so  diabolically  public  —  and  Milliard  was  so  entirely 
unprotected.  He  was  reasonably  safe  now,  and  yet  — 
being  at  heart  a  culprit  —  he  always  had  a  nagging  in- 
hibition to  provide  him  with  unrest,  uncertainty. 

Nevertheless,  he  dined  with  considerable  leisure,  and 
smoked  a  cigar  almost  to  the  end  before  he  left  the  table. 
When  he  quitted  the  room,  it  was  with  practical  assur- 
ance that  his  gravest  fears  were  groundless,  but  for  an 
additional  precaution  he  read  an  evening  paper  in  the 
lobby  (and  how  the  format  and  the  contents  clutched 
him !)  and  endured  in  safety  the  inspection  of  a  score 
of  men  who  had  known  him  well  enough  to  refuse  to  loan 
him  money. 

At  half-past  eight,  vastly  heartened  and  refreshed,  he 
equipped  himself  with  certain  documents  from  his  suit- 
case, and  called  for  a  taxicab.  The  address  he  gave  the 
driver  was  high  on  the  eastern  hills  ;  during  the  last  half 
mile,  Hilliard  was  peering  out  at  the  shaded  lights  of 
houses  where  he  had  played  in  his  earlier  youth.  The 
names  of  the  freeholders  came  automatically  to  his 
mind ;  sometimes  he  smiled  spontaneously,  sometimes  he 
frowned  at  an  incident  of  sinister  recollection ;  twice  his 
pupils  contracted,  and  his  chin  thrust  out  in  thoughtful 
aggressiveness.  Then  the  car  stopped;  Hilliard  went 
up  a  stone-flagged  walk,  up  broad  stone  steps,  guarded 
by  graven  beasts  with  tufts  on  their  tails  (they  had 
seemed  humorous  to  him  once,  but  they  were  beasts  of 
portent  now),  and  stood  on  a  huge  veranda.  He  was 
calm,  and  yet  his  knees  were  disconcertingly  unsteady ; 
he  was  determined,  and  yet  his  heart  was  pumping  in 
uneven  beats ;  for  the  moment,  his  throat  was  dusty  dry. 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  4fl 

As  he  gained  the  level  of  the  veranda,  there  was  a  stir 
of  activity  off  to  the  right,  and  an  erect,  middle-aged 
man  clambered  out  of  a  Gloucester  hammock,  and  came 
briskly  forward.  Back  in  the  shadows  Hilliard  could 
detect  the  soft  outlines  of  a  white  dress. 

"  Yes  ?  "  The  middle-aged  man  was  politely  brusque ; 
and  Hilliard,  at  the  sound  of  that  incisive  voice  of  his, 
started  in  spite  of  himself,  and  swallowed. 

"Is  this  .  .  .  Mr.  Cullen?     Mr.  James  Cullen.?  " 

"  Yes,  sir !  "  The  middle-aged  man  was  very  con- 
vincing about  it.  "  Yes,  sir.  What  can  I  do  for 
you?" 

•Hilliard  bowed   stiffly   from   the  hips  —  a   touch   of 
foreign  courtesy  which  had  its  effect. 

"  If  you're  at  leisure,  Mr.  Cullen,  I  should  like  very 
much  to  have  a  word  with  you.  On  —  I  think  I  may 
call  it  so  —  urgent  private  matters.  My  name  is  Hil- 
liard." 

'*  Er  .  .  .  business  ?  "  Cullen's  voice  held  a  rising 
inflection  which  intimated  that  commercial  affairs  should 
be  confined  to  commercial  hours. 

"  No  —  and  not  altogether  pleasure."  Hilliard's 
own  voice  dropped  a  semitone.  "  In  brief,  I've  come  up 
from  New  York  today  to  bring  you  a  letter  from  a 
young  man  named  Richard  Morgan." 

"  Morgan  !  "  said  the  older  man  sharply,  "  Dick  Mor- 
gan !  "  Back  in  the  shadows  there  was  a  sudden  rustle. 
"  Where's  he?  " 

"  He's  dead,"  said  Hilliard.  "  He  died  in  France." 
Mr.  Cullen  stood  perfectly  still,  and  Hilliard,  watching 
him  intently,  was  overcome  by  resentment  at  the  knowl- 
edge that  two  years  ago  this  man  had  held  Hilliard's 
fate  in  his  thick  fingers. 


42  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

"xYo/"  said  Mr.  CuUen.  "Of  all  things!  Well» 
what  d'jou  know  about  that !  Dicky  Morgan  dead !  " 
There  was  surprise,  but  little  poignancy  in  his  tone. 
"  Isn't  that  terrible !  And  over  in  France !  .  .  .  An- 
gela, did  3'OU  hear  that?"  He  produced  a  huge  silk 
handkerchief,  and  blew  his  nose  energetically. 

More  rustling  from  the  shadows,  and  a  slim  figure 
stepping  out  of  them  into  the  foreground;  it  was 
Angela  Cullen,  just  over  the  brink  of  seventeen,  ex- 
quisitely small  and  blonde,  and  profoundly  agitated  by 
the  news.  Hilliard  bowed  mechanically ;  he  had  remem- 
bered her  as  a  vivid  little  hoyden.  Queer,  that  his  heart 
should  skip  a  beat  or  two  at  beholding  her  now.  Queer, 
that  his  tongue  should  falter,  and  that  he  should  stand 
dumb.  But  she  had  brought  the  first  remembrance  of 
untroubled  days  back  to  him,  and  the  contrast  hurt  — 
abominably. 

"  Oh,  Dad!  *'  she  said,  with  a  quick  intake  of  her 
breath.  "  Oh  .  .  .  Dad! "  And  clung  to  him  for 
refuge,  staring  the  while  with  wide  and  fearful  eyes  at 
the  tall  stranger  who  had  delivered  the  laconic  message. 

Cullen  held  her  close,  and  cleared  his  throat.  He  was 
in  the  common-enough  situation  of  a  man  who  feels  that 
he  ought  to  be  deeply  moved,  and  isn't,  and  wonders 
why ;  and  his  transparent  effort  to  be  funereal  was 
slightly  overdone. 

"  It's  a  great  shock  to  us  —  of  course,"  he  said, 
speaking  slowh^  "  A  great  shock.  ...  Oh !  Mr.  Hil- 
liard —  m}^  daughter.  Well,  I  must  say  I.  .  .  .  Sup- 
pose we  sit  down  and  talk  this  over  — " 

Hilliard  bowed  again;  Mr.  Cullen,  his  arm  encircling 
Angela,  led  the  way  to  the  Gloucester  hammock  and  its 
reinforcement  of  wicker  chairs.     The  trio  was  seated; 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  43 

Hilliard  coughed  delicately,  and  after  that,  there  was  a 
brief  silence.  Gradually,  the  air  was  charged  witli  con- 
straint. 

"  You've  just  come  up  from  New  York,  Mr.  Hil- 
liard? " 

"  This  afternoon,  sir."  Hilliard  was  mentally  col- 
lecting the  details  of  his  mission  ;  but  as  he  looked  across 
at  the  two  Cullens,  his  nerve  wavered,  and  he  was  sick- 
ened by  the  fear  that,  after  all,  he  might  not  be  able  to 
resist  the  subtle  influence  of  his  own  emotions.  Here 
he  was,  and  there  was  Angela  and  Mr.  CuUcn  —  all  of 
them  a  little  older,  all  of  them  a  great  deal  more  re- 
pressed, but  even  so,  here  they  were,  these  three,  just 
as  they  had  sat  in  the  same  place,  on  the  same  sort  of 
summer  evenings,  when  Dicky  Morgan  wasn't  yet  an- 
athema, and  when  .   .   . 

*'  This  .  .  .  this  thing  happened  some  time  ago,  did 
it.?*     You  were  abroad  yourself.''  " 

"  Yes,  I  was." 

"  I  want  to  hear  about  Dick,"  said  Angela  in  a  dry 
little  voice.  "  Please !  And  .  .  .  and  who  are  you, 
Mr.  Hilliard?" 

"  Angela !  "  said  her  father,  reproachfully,  but  Hil- 
liard, coughing  with  great  vehemence,  felt  a  sudden  in- 
rush of  triumph  which  gave  him  confidence.  It  was  the 
triumph  of  dramatic  success ;  the  consciousness  that 
whatever  might  come  next,  he  had  actually  appeared 
before  people  who  knew  him  best,  and  that  they  saw  a 
stranger.  He  was  unexpectedly  miserable  at  this  junc- 
ture; he  was  very  seriously  distraught  and  depressed; 
nevertheless  .  .  .  Hilliard  smiled,  as  a  churchman 
smiles. 

*'  All  I  pretend  to  be  is  a  friend  of  Dick's.     I  — " 


M  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

"  Oh !  A  friend !  "  Cullen's  intonation  was  curi- 
ously warped. 

"  Yes,  sir.  If  I  weren't,  I  shouldn't  have  made  this 
journey  in  quite  this  way."  Again,  a  surcharged  si- 
lence. 

"  Go  on,  please."  Cullen's  attitude  had  changed ;  he 
was  sitting  more  nearly  upright,  and  his  demeanour  was 
that  of  a  jurist  rather  than  of  a  mourner.  Angela, 
however,  was  tense;  and  so  it  was  to  her  that  Hilliard 
directed  his  recital. 

"  Perhaps  you'll  understand  better  if  I  go  back  to 
the  beginning,"  he  said  hesitantly.     "  Shall  I?  " 

"  Do."  Cullen  motioned  him  carte-blanche,  and  Hil- 
liard took  a  long  breath,  and  began. 

"  Back  in  May,  1915,"  he  said,  "  I  went  to  England 
and  then  to  France  to  arrange  some  government  con- 
tracts for  copper  and  copper  products.  In  France,  I 
was  stunned  —  as  every  one  is  —  by  the  back-lash  of 
the  war.  And  like  every  one  else,  I  did  what  I  could  on 
the  spot  .  .  .  bought  tobacco  for  the  soldiers,  and  all 
that  sort  of  thing.  It  isn't  a  question  of  charity,  once 
you  see  the  circumstances  —  you  simply  look,  and  real- 
ize that  the  most  you  can  do  is  so  trivial  in  comparison 
with  what  there  is  to  be  done  that  you  .  .  .  well,  you  do  all 
you  can  and  wish  to  Heaven  it  were  ten  thousand  times 
more.  And  then  you  try  to  find  out  where  your  mite 
will  do  the  most  good,  and  it  staggers  you  because  there 
are  so  many  places  where  they  need  everything  you 
have  and  everything  everybody  else  has.  It  so  hap- 
pened that  a  friend  of  mine  was  in  one  of  the  American 
jf  surgical  units  at  Neuilly.  I  couldn't  spread  my  own 
little  contributions  over  all  the  institutions  that  needed 
it  —  there   wouldn't   have   been   enough   to   notice,   so 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  45 

naturally  I  spent  most  of  my  time  and  most  of  my 
money  at  Neuilly.  It's  the  largest  strictly  surgical  base 
hospital  in  France,  you  know;  the  Red  Cross  was  run- 
ning it  then,  in  the  buildings  built  originally  for  the 
Pasteur  Institute.  Well,  the  cases  there  are  all  severe. 
The  men  need  more  help  than  the  average,  and  there  was 
one  ward  in  particular  ...  I  won't  describe  it  to  you, 
but  the  first  time  I  ever  set  foot  in  it,  I  knew  I'd  found 
the  place  to  take  all  I  had  to  give.  And  it  was  there 
that  I  met  this  man  Morgan."  He  paused  a  moment. 
"  And  Morgan  needed  me  more  than  any  one  else  in  the 
ward." 

"  Was  he  .  .  .  hurt  so  badly  ?  "  The  girl's  voice 
was  taut  with  feeling,  and  although  Hilliard  knew  that 
she  had  cherished  a  juvenile  affection  for  Dicky  Morgan, 
he  really  marvelled  that  it  had  so  endured. 

"  Yes,  badly,"  he  said,  "  but  that  wasn't  the  point. 
He  was  alone.  He  was  friendless.  He  was  under  the 
darkest  cloud  that  ever  man  can  live  under.  You  know 
what  it  was,  Mr.  Cullen." 

The  older  man  nodded  tardily. 

"  I  have  an  idea,"  he  conceded. 

"  Well,  there  he  was  —  wounded,  and  marooned  in 
France,  and  with  a  bad  conscience.  Perhaps  you  can 
understand  why  he  got  my  sympathy." 

"  Poor  Dick !  "  said  Angela,  barely  above  a  whisper, 
and  Hilliard,  looking  across  at  her,  was  stirred  by  vague 
intuitions  which  rendered  him  guiltily  uncomfortable. 
It  was  a  full  two  years  since  last  a  tender  sentiment  had 
exercised  any  power  over  him,  and  he  had  thought  him- 
self immune  to  women  for  ever;  but  as  the  picture  of 
war-drenched  Neuilly  rose  before  him,  and  through  it,  as 
through  a  filmy  veil  of  unreality,  he  saw  this  serious 


46  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

young  girl  in  all  her  sweet  compassion  for  the  man  he 
once  had  been,  he  was  chastened  and  humiliated,  and  liis 
words  tripped  in  his  throat. 

He  sat  motionless,  idly  closing  and  unclosing  his 
fingers.  The  peace  and  quiet  of  the  night  were  robbing 
him  of  rancour,  and  his  tumbling  thoughts  were  sud- 
denly gentle  and  quite  unselfish.  Indeed,  he  was  won- 
dering whether  he  had  gone  so  far  that  retreat  was  im- 
possible ;  he  was  wondering  wliether  certain  other  friends 
of  his  would  take  the  news  as  Angela  took  it,  for  if  so, 
there  was  little  necessity  for  the  stratagems  he  had 
planned,  and  less  excuse  for  them.  It  had  simply  never 
occurred  to  him  in  announcing  the  death  of  a  man  who 
had  run  away  from  Syracuse  in  disgrace,  he  might  find 
pity  and  forgiveness  waiting  for  expression.  Was  it 
too  late  already  to  retract.^  Had  he  said  so  much  that 
explanation  was  in  vain?  Was  there  still  an  opportun- 
ity for  him  to  change  his  tactics,  to  admit  that  it  was 
only  the  unrcgencrate  soul  and  the  outward  countenance 
of  Dicky  Morgan  that  had  perished,  and  to  maintain 
that  a  new  being,  a  penitent  and  resolute  being,  had 
arisen  phcenix-like  to  make  atonement  for  the  wasted 
years  that  had  been  ended  by  shrapnel-fire  from  the 
Huns.'*  And  suppose  he  did  so,  what  would  they  say? 
If  public  opinion  were  to  model  itself  upon  the  sorrow 
of  poor  little  Angela  CuUen,  was  it  not  better  to  confess 
at  once,  to  wipe  the  slate  clean,  and  to  begin  afresh? 
Had  he  said  so  much  that  the  pathway  to  truth  was 
closed  —  or  was  a  lie  well  stuck-to  better  than  the  truth, 
half  told? 

Morals,  which  are  nothing  but  negative  virtues  any- 
way, hang  on  trifles.  HiUiard  was  tottering  on  the  ut- 
termost edge  of  decision  —  and  Mr.  Cullen  flung  the 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  4<7 

weight  of  an  aimless  charge  against  liim,  and  settled  the 
matter  out  of  hand. 

"  He  certainly  had  plenty  to  be  sorry  for,"  said  Mr. 
Cullen. 

"  Oh,  Dad!  "  said  Angela,  with  a  quick  intake  of  her 
breath. 

Virtuous,  was  Mr.  Cullen.  A  church-goer  and  a  com- 
municant, was  Mr.  Cullen.  A  giver  of  alms,  and  a 
friend  to  his  friends  —  but  in  forgetting  that  the  evil 
that  men  do  shouldn't  rightfully  be  allowed  to  live  on 
after  them,  and  in  remembering,  perhaps  too  clearly  at 
that  moment,  the  final  interview  he  had  held  with  Dicky 
Morgan,  Mr.  Cullen  throttled  repentance  into  a  state 
of  furious  helplessness,  and  brought  back  Hilliard  to  his 
senses. 

"  Yes,"  said  Hilliard,  "  he  had  plenty  to  be  sorry  for, 
and  he  was.  First  and  last,  he  told  me  a  good  deal 
about  himself.  Of  his  troubles  here,  I'm  not  capable  of 
sitting  as  judge.  Instead,  I  sat  as  confessor.  So  that 
you'll  be  more  interested  in  that  part  of  his  life  which 
you  evidently  haven't  known  about,  and  I  have.  He 
left  here,  I  think,  in  December.  Ho  hadn't  any  fixed 
purpose ;  all  he  wanted  was  to  find  a  place  where  he 
could  begin  over  again  on  a  fresh  basis,  and  make  a  man 
of  himself.  .  .  .  For  that  much,  at  least,  you  can  give 
him  credit." 

"  And  I  do,"  said  Cullen,  approvingly. 

Hilliard,  swept  again  by  the  nearness  of  deliverance 
from  his  deceits,  leaned  forward.  A  strong  endorse- 
ment of  Morgan's  ambition  at  this  juncture  might  yet 
have  brought  about  a  recantation. 

"  I'm  glad  you  do,  Mr.  Cullen.  ...  I  think  myself  it 
was  the  only  course  he  could  have  taken."     He  hung 


48  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

perilously  upon  the  response ;  it  would  either  justify  or 
condemn  his  present  attitude. 

"  That's  probably  why  he  took  it,"  said  Mr.  Cullen. 
"  Oh,  I'm  fair  enough  to  him,  Mr.  Milliard,  but  as  for 
judgment  — '*  He  shook  his  head  firmly.  "  What 
made  him  go  to  France  ?  " 

Hilliard  sat  back  —  it  was  more  than  likely,  then, 
that  the  public  would  reflect  the  opinion  of  Angela's 
father,  and  not  of  Angela.  The  gates  of  truth  clanged 
shut. 

"  That  came  to  him  as  the  logical  course,"  he  said 
shortly.  *"  He'd  met  with  some  brother  adventurers  in 
New  York,  and  they  put  the  idea  into  his  head.  He  had 
no  money,  so  that  he  worked  his  passage  across  on  the 
MouettCy  a  French  tramp,  in  January,  1915.  On  the 
other  side,  he  met  a  lieutenant  of  artillery  who  took  a 
fancy  to  him.  As  you  undoubtedly  know,  he  spoke 
French  like  a  native,  and  that  made  it  easy  for  him. 
France  is  a  land  of  papers,  and  of  records ;  and  papers 
and  records  can  be  created,  altered,  shuffled  —  when 
there's  a  reason.  The  reason  was  that  the  Republic 
needed  men  —  and  the  lieutenant  was  willing  to  be  a 
forger  if  that  were  a  condition  to  his  being  a  patriot. 
His  conception  of  patriotism  was  to  enlist  every  able- 
bodied  man  in  the  service  of  France.  But  at  that  time, 
the  war  was  still  rather  exclusive  as  far  as  Americans 
were  concerned.  So  that  Dicky  Morgan  disappeared 
from  earth  —  and  there  was  a  new  soldier  of  the  69th 
Territorials  by  the  name  of  Pierre  Dutout  ...  *  Peter 
Nobody.'  " 

"  What!  "  said  Mr.  Cullen. 

Hilliard  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  I  said  he  told  me  much  about  himself.     He  sailed 


THE  IMAN  NOBODY  KNEW  49 

under  his  own  name,  and  I  dare  say  you  can  verify  that 
in  New  York.  But  when  he  landed,  he  took  an  alias. 
To  be  sure,  that  was  primarily  to  get  him  into  the 
service  as  quickly  as  possible,  but  there  was  another 
reason,  too.  I've  already  intimated  what  it  was ;  and 
the  two  ideas  dove-tailed  perfectly.  He  had  wanted  to 
start  over  again,  unhampered.  Nothing  could  have 
been  more  opportune  than  this  chance.  See  what  it 
gave  him!  He  simply  dropped  out  of  the  world!  .  .  . 
And  although  it  was  a  clear  case  of  coincidence,  still,  his 
life  here  must  have  been  anything  but  successful  to  drive 
him  as  far  as  that  —  because  if  he  had  cared  to  wait  a 
little,  he  could  have  enlisted  honourably,  in  his  own 
name.  .  .  .  No,  I  think  it  was  the  possibility  of  losing 
himself  utterly  that  first  appealed  to  him.  And  there 
must  have  been  a  good  cause." 

"  Yes,"  said  Mr.  Cullen  absently.  "  There  was. 
But,  .  .  .  always  theatrical,  Dick  was.  That  was  so 
like  him  —  to  do  just  that  sort  of  thing,  and  to  do  it 
just  that  way." 

**  As  nearly  as  I  could  gather,"  said  Hilliard,  "  he 
had  been  practically  .  .  ,  er  .  .  .  ostracized  here.  Is 
that  correct.?"  He  noted  that  Angela  flinched  at  the 
suggestion,  and  that  her  head  was  drooping  very  low. 

"Why,  I'd  hardly  say  that,  but—" 

"  At  least,  he  had  lost  many  of  his  former  friends, 
hadn't  he?" 

"  Y-e-e-s,  but  there  was  a  good  reason  for  it." 

"  Oh !  Dad! "  said  Angela,  pleadingly,  below  her 
breath.  "  Please  don't  say  things  1-hke  that  —  I  can't 
stand  any  more  — " 

"  What  his  offence  may  have  been,  I  don't  know," 
said  Hilliard,  plunging  doggedly   into  his   narrative. 


50  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

"  But  he  left  town,  so  he  told  me,  in  a  tremendous  revul- 
sion of  feeling.  His  one  ambition  was  to  make  some- 
thing of  himself,  to  wash  out  the  past  —  to  justify  his 
existence.  And  he  went  overseas  not  merely  in  a  spirit 
of  adventure  —  I  hope  I  didn't  give  you  that  impres- 
sion —  but  with  the  idea  of  genuine  service  and  sacri- 
fice. And  very  soon,  terribly  soon  .  .  .  during  a  night 
attack  .  .  .  they  got  him."  Hilliard  paused  effec- 
tively. "  There  wasn't  a  chance  in  a  hundred  for  liim 
to  recover,  and  he  knew  it.  And  then  it  came  to  him, 
blindingly  and  desperately,  that  the  world  —  that  is,  the 
world  which  had  known  him  in  his  failures  —  would 
never  hear  what  he  had  done.  He  had  made  his  sacri- 
fice, and  it  was  useless.  In  hospital,  he  was  Pierre 
Dutout,  you  see  .  .  .  and  between  that  character,  and 
his  own,  was  the  barrier  of  the  subterfuge  he  had 
grasped  so  eagerly  —  his  alias,  and  his  false  record. 
It  was  so  complicated  that  no  one  would  ever  search  out 
the  truth.  No  one  would  have  any  reason  to  doubt  that 
he  wasn't  what  he  purported  to  be.  He  craved  to  tell 
some  one;  to  send  back  a  message  to  his  old  friends; 
and  I  happened  to  be  there  —  and  he  confided  in  me. 
And  here  I  am,  Mr.  Cullen.  Bringing  credentials. 
Now,  in  the  first  place,  I  have  a  photograph  of  him, 
taken  from  his  original  passport."  He  produced  it 
from  his  pocket,  and  offered  it  to  Mr.  Cullen.  "  Is 
there  any  mistake,  sir.'^  Or  is  it  the  Dick  Morgan  you 
know?" 

Mr.  Cullen  switched  on  a  standing  lamp;  Angela  hid 
her  face,  and  shrank  back  from  the  white  electric  glare. 

"  Yes  —  yes."  He  gave  the  tiny  picture  to  his 
daughter.  "  There's  no  question  about  it,  Mr.  Hil- 
Uard." 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  61 

"  That's  Dick !  "  said  Angela  agonizedly. 

"  With  his  signature,  of  course  —  you  recognize  it, 
do  you  ?  " 

••'  It's  his  handwriting  fast  enough,"  conceded  Mr. 
Cullen.  He  looked  up  at  Hilliard,  and  his  brows  were 
furrowed,  as  though  he  were  struggling  to  coinprehend 
what  all  tliis  had  to  do  with  the  Cullen  family.  "  Yes, 
there's  no  question  about  that,  either.  Very  character- 
istic —  you  couldn't  ever  mistake  those  flourishes. 
Dramatic  boy,  he  was  —  always.      Shows  —  don't  it.^  " 

"  Dramatic  —  yes.  That  is  —  imaginative.  Ven- 
turesome. And  it's  a  quality  that  sometimes  makes 
heroes,  Mr.  Cullen.  .  .  .  Would  you  have  called  him 
brave?  " 

"  I'm  not  sure  of  that,  sir.     I  — " 

"  I  would !  "  said  Angela.     "  /  would !  " 

"  Foolliardy,  often.     But  brave  .  .  ." 

"  Wait,  then !  "  said  Hilliard,  motioning.  He  was 
transfixed  by  the  vision  of  Angela  Cullen,  who  had 
started  up  in  passionate  defence  of  an  old-time  play- 
mate ;  her  cheeks  were  flushed,  her  eyes  were  shining, 
she  was  ineffably  appealing  in  her  tearless  grief  and 
in  her  loyalty.  For  the  first  time,  Hilliard  could  see 
how  the  passing  years  had  brought  out  the  woman  in 
her ;  he  could  see,  under  the  dazzling  light  of  the 
porch-lamp,  what  an  adorable  champion  he  had  left 
behind  him.  Her  vehemence  thrilled  him ;  his  own  cheeks 
reddened,  and  his  heart  was  abruptly  quickened  at  the 
sight  of  her  at  the  same  time  that  it  congealed  from  her 
father's  estimate.  "  You  know,"  he  said,  "  that  brav- 
ery under  fire  has  a  peculiar  reward.  It's  called  a 
citation.  In  orders.  You  think  that  Morgan  wasn't 
brave,  Mr.  Cullen.     But  there's  a  proof.     A  proof  that 


52  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

even  you  must  recognize."  He  tempered  his  voice. 
"  For  here^'*  he  said,  whipping  a  folded  paper  into  view, 
*'  is  what  the  Republic  of  Erance  says  about  him ! 
Here  is  the  record  that  will  endure  as  long  as  France 
does.  Here,  Mr.  Cullen,  is  Dicky  Morgan's  cita- 
tion! .  .  ." 

Dead  quiet  —  for  second  after  second.  Angela  had 
turned  pale ;  she  was  winking  hard. 

"  His  .  .  .  citation !  "  Mr.  Cullen  mopped  his  fore- 
head. 

"  His  own  copy  of  it  was  lost,  but  I  brought  the 
official  journal  .  .  .  shall  I  translate.? 

"  *  Pierre  Dutout,  private  of  the  69th  Territorials, 
during  the  battles  of  the  fourth  of  May  and  the  days 
following,  has  made  exhibit  of  the  highest  devotion  and 
the  greatest  courage;  and  especially  by  carrying  out  a 
volunteer  duty,  under  heavy  fire  on  the  night  of  the 
sixth  of  May,  has  given  to  his  whole  detachment  an 
extraordinary  example  of  loyalty  and  heroic  sacri- 
fice.' " 

He  gave  the  newspaper  to  Mr.  Cullen.  "  And  here 
—  is  his  Croix  de  Guerre.'*'  On  impulse,  he  handed  it 
not  to  Mr.  Cullen,  whose  palm  was  ready  for  it,  but  to 
Angela. 

She  had  taken  the  decoration  half-fearfully,  and  she 
had  glanced  at  Hilliard  with  an  expression  so  curiously 
combined  of  awe  and  joy  and  jealousy  that  his  own 
eyes  wavered,  and  he  had  momentarily  averted  his  gaze. 
When  he  had  ventured  to  turn  to  her  again,  she  had 
carried  one  hand  to  her  breast,  pressed  tightly,  she 
was  looking  down  at  the  bronze  cross  in  her  lap,  and 
her     shoulders     were     shaking     perceptibly.     Hilliard 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  53 

gripped  the  arms  of  his  chair,  and  every  muscle  of  him 
was  drawn  tense  ...  his  farce  was  sudden  tragedy, 
and  horror  clutched  at  him.  Angela  was  crying  .  .  . 
stoical,  by  supreme  effort,  at  the  news  of  Morgan's 
death,  she  was  crying,  now  that  she  believed  he  had  died 
gloriously.  It  was  a  hard  problem  for  him  to  analyse 
...  it  was  so  magnificently  complimentary  and  incon- 
sistent .  .  . 

"  It  would  seem  to  me,"  said  Mr.  Cullen,  somewhat 
thickly,  "  that  he  wiped  the  slate  clean  enough  for  all 
practical  purposes,  anyway."  He  took  the  war  cross 
from  Angela's  reverent  fingers,  and  examined  it  curi- 
ously. He  looked  at  Angela,  and  slipped  his  arm 
around  her ;  she  sat  up  straighter,  and  drew  a  shivering 
breath.  "  I  may  have  been  wrong  in  my  judgment," 
said  Mr.  Cullen  soberly. 

Hilliard,  who  had  been  moodily  sunk  in  revery, 
fumbled  a  third  time  in  his  inner  coat  pocket. 

"  He  sent  you  a  letter,"  he  said.  "  I  suppose  you've 
been  wondering,  under  all  the  circumstances,  what 
brought  me  up  here  to  you.  It  wasn't  to  eulogize  him 
particularly;  it  was  to  bring  you  his  message.  He 
sent  it  to  you  because  for  some  reason  or  other  he 
thought  he  owed  it  to  you  especially.  And  perhaps 
I'd  better  say  now  that  he  made  me  read  it  .   .   ." 

With  Angela  peering  hard  over  his  shoulder,  Mr. 
Cullen  strained  to  decipher  the  uneven  penmanship; 
which,  combined  with  the  Continental  transparency  of 
the  paper,  forced  him  finally  to  resort  to  a  pair  of 
tortoise-rimmed  spectacles.     He  began  to  read  aloud: 

"  Dear  Mr.  Cullen : 

**  I  am  asking  Mr.  Henry  Hilliard  to  bring  you  this 


54>  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

letter  personally.  I  want  him  to  tell  you  what  I'm  not 
writing,  too.  And  you  can  tell  other  people,  if  you 
care  to. 

"  I  want  3'ou  to  know  that  since  I've  had  time  to 
think,  I've  changed  my  mind  about  a  good  many  things. 
I've  come  to  the  conclusion  that  3'ou  were  right  and  I 
was  wrong.  Maybe  you  won't  remember  the  last  talk 
we  had  together,  but  I  do.  You  told  me  then  that 
I  didn't  have  it  in  me  to  make  good  unless  I  learned 
that  I  was  about  the  most  worthless  young  man  in 
town,  and  the  one  with  the  hardest  row  to  hoe  in  order 
to  make  something  out  of  myself,  and  set  out  from  there. 
Well,  I've  learned  it.  I  had  to.  Of  course,  I  couldn't 
agree  with  you  at  the  time.  That  wouldn't  have  been 
expected.  But  over  here  I've  had  one  lesson  after 
another.  Some  of  them  were  pretty  bitter,  but  they've 
all  helped.  And  since  May,  when  I  was  hurt,  I've  had 
lots  of  time  to  think  them  over. 

"  I  never  deserved  your  kindness,  and  now  I  can't 
ever  repay  it.  But  it  may  please  you  to  know  that 
this  war  has  taught  me  what  you  tried  to,  and  couldn't 

—  that  I  was  as  close  to  zero  value  at  home  as  a  man 
could  be.  It's  onh'  through  this  war  that  I've  got  any 
pride  in  myself,  and  I'm  sort  of  like  Kipling's  gentle- 
man-ranker —  I'm  proud  of  myself  because  I've  done 
away  with  all  the  other  kinds  of  pride  I  used  to  have. 
And  I  believe  I've  made  good — not  as  a  great  general, 
but  as  a  private  soldier.      That  was  the  trouble  at  home 

—  I  w-as  only  fit  to  be  a  private,  and  I  thought  I  could 
be  a  general  off-hand.  You  said  I'd  do  well  if  I  learned 
that,  and  I  have.  They  gave  me  the  Croix  de  Gmrre. 
and  in  a  way,  that  proves  it,  doesn't  it?  Notice  that 
they  didn't  even  mike  me  a  corporal,  though!  That's 
all  right  —  I  haven't  had  enough  training  yet  to  be  a 
corporal!     It's  curious  that  I'll  admit  that,  isn't  it? 

"  I  want  you  to  know  that  I've  thought  of  you  a 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  55 

great  deal.  I  don't  blame  you  for  letting  me  go.  I 
did  once,  but  I  don't  now.  Please  think  of  me,  though, 
as  a  man  who  came  through  at  the  finish,  even  if  he'd 
been  pretty  hopeless  before. 

"Hilliard,  the  best  man  in  the  world,  has  promised 
to  bring  you  this  letter.  I  hope  you'll  be  glad  to  see 
him,  and  to  hear  his  side  of  the  story.  This  is  my 
apology  and  my  blessing,  if  that's  worth  anything  to 
you.     I  send  a  kiss  to  Angela. 

"  R.  C.  M." 

Mr.  Cullen  ended  with  a  falling  inflection,  and  let  the 
hand  which  held  the  letter  drop  to  his  knee. 

"  The  letter,  as  you  might  guess  from  the  looks  of  it," 
said  HiUiard,  "  was  written  at  several  different  times  — 
according  to  his  strength.  I  want  you  to  realize,  too, 
Mr.  Cullen,  that  it  was  no  small  effort  for  him  to  write 
it.  And  then  I  was  in  Switzerland  when  he  died,  and 
his  possessions  had  all  gone  to  one  of  those  tape-bound 
bureaus,  so  that  I  had  a  fearful  time  to  identify  my- 
self and  get  what  he  had  meant  me  to  have,  and  after 
that,  I  had  to  make  a  sudden  trip  to  Russia,  and  back 
to  England  again.  There  were  delays  —  delays.  I 
was  ill  for  several  months  myself;  I  had  typhoid  in 
London.  I  should  have  mailed  these  things  to  you  long 
ago,  but  he  had  begged  me  to  come  in  person,  and  I 
had  promised.  And  every  day  I  expected  that  in  an- 
other week  or  two  I  should  start  for  home.  I  feel  that 
I  owe  you  this  explanation  and  a  great  plea  for  for- 
giveness for  what  must  seem  to  you  like  gross  indif- 
ference on  my  part.  But  I  landed  hardly  two  weeks 
ago,  and  I  came  up  to  you  at  the  earliest  possible  mo- 
ment." 

"  In  some  ways,  he  was  a  most  remarkable  young 


56  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

man,"  said  Mr.  Cullen,  irrelevantly.  "  Nobody  ever 
understood  wh}^  he  turned  out  such  a  black  sheep. 
Came  from  a  fine  old  family.  I  suppose  his  father  was 
one  of  the  most  loved  men  in  Onondaga  County.  Dick 
lived  for  years  on  his  father's  reputation,  after  people 
stopped  noticing  him  on  his  own  account.  Just  took 
advantage  of  the  fact  that  nobody  could  quite  bear 
to  be  harsh  to  his  father's  son.  But  he  was  alwaj^s  a 
wild  young  chap, —  nothing  very  bad,  except  that  just 
too  much  of  anything — including  liquor  —  was  just 
enough  for  him!  Had  too  quick  a  temper  to  be  dip- 
lomatic enough  to  hold  a  job,  and  didn't  care  much 
about  working  hard,  and  finally  the  tide  turned,  and 
he  began  to  get  treated  just  as  if  his  father  hadn't 
been  a  sort  of  popular  idol,  and  then  his  disposition 
soured,  and  he  made  some  bad  mistakes.  I  gave  him 
the  last  job  he  ever  had  in  Syracuse,  but  I  had  to  let 
him  go  .  .  .  and  I  told  him  some  plain  facts  when 
I  did.     That's  what  he  refers  to." 

"  I  assumed,"  said  Hilliard,  hesitantly,  "  that  at 
one  time  he  had  been  what  you  might  call  .  .  .  disap- 
pointed in  love  ?  Something  was  weighing  on  him  — 
he  practically  admitted  .  .  .  but  that  was  one  point 
that  he  didn't  appear  to  want  to  confess,  even  to  me." 

"  He  was  engaged  to  Carol  Durant."  Angela  had 
taken  the  cross  again,  and  held  it  like  a  precious  relic. 
"  She  broke  it  off,  just  before  he  went  away." 

"  The  day  before,"  added  Mr.  Cullen.  "  That  was 
one  of  the  two  reasons  why  he  went." 

Hilliard  nodded. 

"  I  see.  ...  On  account  of  his  habits  .'* " 

"That  was  the  gossip,"  said  Mr.  Cullen  heavily. 
"  Dr.  Durant  was  supposed  to  have  — " 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  57 

"Didn't  he  write  to  her?  "  asked  Angela,  raising  her 
eyes. 

"  Not  that  I  .  .  ."  He  stopped  quickly.  "  I  trust 
you'll  forgive  me,  but  I'd  imagined  from  various  re- 
marks he  made  at  different  times,  that  he  was  really 
.  .  .  that  he  was  greatly  attached  to  you.''  This  last 
was  addressed  to  Angela,  who  was  both  dignified  and 
shaken  by  the  suggestion.  Her  father,  however,  nodded 
in  the  negative. 

"  Angela  wasn't  much  more  than  fifteen,  sir.  They 
were  great  friends ;  he  was  very  fond  of  her.  No,  it 
was  Carol  Durant  he  was  engaged  to.  Didn't  he  ask 
you  to  see  her?  " 

«  No." 

"  But  you  will,  I  hope,  won't  you?  I  can  appreciate 
how  you  might  feel  about  it,  but  — " 

"  How  are  my  feelings  to  enter  into  this,  Mr.  Cullen? 
My  responsibility  is  to  do  what  ought  to  be  done.  And 
if  you'll  tell  me  the  people  you  think  I  ought  to  see 
about  this  — " 

"  You  can  see  Carol  here  tonight,  if  you  care  to,"  said 
Angela,  uncertainly.  "  She  and  .  .  .  and  a  friend  of 
hers  are  coming  over  to  talk  about  another  Red  Cross 
drive.  Carol's  on  the  committee.  They  ought  to  be 
here  any  minute  now." 

"  Yes,"  said  Hilliard.  "  If  I'm  going  to  see  her,  I 
think  I  should  rather  —  see  her  here." 

Mr.  Cullen  sighed  stertorously. 

"  Well,  perhaps  it's  better  .  .  .  and  I  shall  want  to 
telephone  this  to  the  Herald  if  you  don't  object.  It's 
the  least  we  can  do,  all  things  considered."  .  .  .  He 
reflected  a  moment.  "  How  long  are  you  staying  in 
town,  Mr.  Hilliard?" 


68  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

"  I've  made  no  plans  whatsoever,"  he  said,  after  a 
shght  pause.  "  I  sold  my  interests  to  a  British  syn- 
dicate of  bankers  two  months  ago.  My  home  is  where 
my  baggage  is.  And,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  that's  where 
it's  always  been.  I  ran  up  from  New  York  to  deliver 
my  message  to  you,  and  beyond  that,  I  haven't  any 
schedule  or  any  duties.  I'm  thinking  of  taking  a  day 
or  two  to  see  certain  of  Dick's  friends  —  the  ones  he 
talked  about  most  —  and  after  that,  the  future  is  on 
the  knees  of  the  gods." 

Mr.  Cullen  regarded  him  with  sincere  respect. 

"  It  would  give  me  great  pleasure,"  he  said,  a  trifle 
pompously,  "  if  you  would  be  my  guest  for  the  time 
you're  here,  Mr.  Hilliard.  I  feel  as  though  you'd  got 
a  sort  of  claim  on  us  .  .  .  coming  like  this  —  and  it 
would  please  me  very  much  indeed."  Hilliard's  heart 
pounded. 

"  And  me  too,"  said  Angela,  gently.  Hilliard's  heart 
threatened  to  suffocate  him ;  not  entirely  because  the 
game  was  going  so  infinitely  better  than  he  had  dared 
to  hope,  but  also  because  it  was  Angela  who  entreated 
him. 

"  It's  wonderfully  good  of  you,"  he  protested,  "  but 
I  couldn't  disturb  you  to  that  extent.  Thank  you 
but—" 

Mr.  Cullen  stopped  him  by  an  inclusive  gesture. 

"  You  won't  disturb  us  in  the  slightest !  It's  a  big 
house ;  and  Angela  and  I  are  all  there  are  in  the  family. 
I  wish  you'd  come  with  us,  Mr.  Hilliard.  I  should 
feel  much  better  than  having  you  stay  down  town." 

"  Well  — "  said  Hilliard,  dubiously.  His  soul  was 
filled  with  unholy  joy,  but  his  outward  demeanour  was 
deprecatory.     "  It's  ever  so  kind  of  you ;  still  — " 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  69 

"  As  a  favour  to  me,"  urged  Mr.  Cullen. 

"  As  a  favour  to  tw^,'*  echoed  Angela,  and  Hilliard 
looked  attentively  at  her,  and  was  obvious!}^  swayed. 
She  noted  it ;  he  had  intended  her  to  notice  it.  He  gave 
her  a  smile  which  had  the  power,  even  in  her  sombre 
mood,  to  draw  a  faint  response  in  kind. 

"  If  you're  sure  it  won't  be  a  hardship  to  you  — " 

"Nonsense!  It's  settled,  then,  is  it.^^  I'll  send  one 
of  ray  cars  down  for  your  things." 

Hilliard's  eyes  flickered  at  the  ingenuous  vanity ;  he 
had  recently  learned  that  Mr.  Cullen  had  made  more 
money  during  the  past  twelve  months  than  during  the 
previous  twelve  years. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  ''  if  you're  so  charitable  as  to  in- 
sist — " 

"  I  do,  sir,  I  do !  .  .  .  You're  at  the  Onondaga,  of 
course.'*  " 

Angela,  who  had  been  listening  intently,  started  up 
at  the  unmistakable  echo  of  footfalls  on  the  walk. 

"  Here  comes  Carol !  "  she  gasped.  "  And  .  .  .  and 
Jack !  Oh,  Mr.  Hilliard !  Oh,  Dad  !  Who's  going  to 
tell  her!" 

As  Mr.  Cullen  flinched,  Hilliard  put  out  his  hand  in 
a  motion  of  supreme  restraint.  His  voice  was  low  and 
pulsing;  and  laden  with  a  curious  quality  which  engen- 
dered calm  and  confidence. 

"  Whatever  Dick  Morgan  may  have  been  at  home," 
he  said,  "  I  knew  him  after  he  off'ered  his  life  for  a 
great  ideal,  and  I'm  proud  that  he  called  me  his 
friend.  I'll  tell  Miss  Durant  myself,  please.  It's  my 
right." 

And  turned  to  face  the  girl  he  had  tried  to  die  for,  and 
failed. 


IV 


SHE  had  already  been,  when  he  last  saw  her,  the 
outstanding  beauty  of  Syracuse,  but  he  was  as- 
tounded to  behold  what  the  interval  of  two  years  had 
done  for  her.  The  traditional  Greek  purity  of  line  had 
always  been  hers,  and  the  Latin  purity  of  colour  as 
well ;  moreover,  she  bore  herself  precisely  as  he  last  re- 
membered, with  her  head  carried  high  —  not  in  imper- 
iousness,  but  with  surpassing  interest  in  the  surrounding 
world.  She  had,  however,  taken  upon  herself  a  new 
maturity;  her  figure,  exceptionally  graceful,  was  still 
slender ;  but  suggestive  of  a  more  womanly,  a  more  in- 
clusive charm.  Hilliard,  at  sight  of  her,  was  visited 
by  a  twisting  pain,  part  hatred  for  what  she  had 
ceased  to  be  to  him,  and  part  concern  for  the  ideal  he 
had  adored,  and  found  improved. 

He  was  being  presented  to  her !  He,  who  had  kissed 
her  a  thousand  times,  was  undergoing  the  ritual  of 
presentation !  —  and  she  was  smiling  at  him  with  those 
grave,  sweet  eyes  of  hers,  and  calling  him  by  his 
adopted  name!  His  mask  of  protection  had  never 
seemed  so  slight,  so  insufficient;  the  fragrance  of  her, 
and  the  illusion  caused  by  this,  threatened  his  bal- 
ance and  set  his  nerves  on  edge;  fortunately,  the  rou- 
tine of  the  conventions  intervened  to  save  him  from 
his  inarticulateness.  For  one  thing,  there  was  the  rite 
of  introduction  to  Armstrong,  and  after  that  there 
was  a  dash  of  promiscuous  conversation,  with  not  a  little 
weather-philosophy  in  it.     Then  came  the  inexorable 

60 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  61 

hush  caused  by  the  presence  of  a  stranger  whose  fads 
and  fancies  are  still  a  matter  of  conjecture,  and  out  of 
that  hush,  a  question,  and  Hilliard  was  suddenly  visited 
by  a  species  of  self-hypnosis. 

If  he  had  been  moved  at  all  by  the  sight  of  Angela, 
whom  he  had  loved  as  a  younger  sister,  he  was,  by 
comparison,  shaken  as  by  a  whirlwind  by  the  sight  of 
Carol  Durant,  whom  he  had  loved  as  a  woman.  To  be 
sure,  he  was  relieved  of  the  necessity  of  choosing  his 
course  of  conduct  —  he  had  done  that,  irrevocably,  half 
an  hour  ago  —  and  to  that  extent,  his  mental  strug- 
gle had  lessened ;  but  not  on  the  train,  not  at  the  hotel, 
not  even  when  he  witnessed  Angela's  severe  grief,  had 
he  remotely  conceived  that  this  instant  would  be  so 
difficult  to  surmount.  What  in  New  York  had  seemed 
a  regeneration,  and  earlier  on  this  same  evening  had 
appeared  a  very  dubious  deception,  was  rapidly  taking 
upon  itself  the  colour  of  irremediable  wrong.  His  im- 
agination was  aroused  beyond  belief;  and  as  he  stared 
in  dumb  suspense  at  Carol,  recalling  a  thousand  epi- 
sodes and  a  thousand  privileges  of  the  long  ago,  he  was 
preyed  upon  by  a  slow-stealing  grimness  of  despair 
which  left  him  sick  with  misery. 

She  was  waiting  for  an  answer  —  and  the  others  were 
waiting,  too,  and  watching  him  ...  he  felt  surrounded 
and  borne  down  upon  by  a  crushing  weight  of  accus- 
ing personalities.  He  felt  that  guilt  was  stamped  on 
his  every  feature  ...  he  felt  that  every  thought  of  his 
must  be  as  crystal  to  the  four  who  waited  for  him  to 
speak. 

He  was  himself  and  he  was  not  himself;  he  was  os- 
tensibly Henry  Hilliard,  a  man  in  whom  it  couldn't  be 
suspected  that  the  heart  and  soul  of  Dicky  Morgan 


62  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

were  embodied ;  he  was  a  transcendentalist ;  a  spectator 
at  his  own  funeral.  The  emotional  appeal  of  it  got 
him  in  its  grasp;  when  he  glanced  at  the  telling  letter 
which  he  himself  had  written,  he  was  pushed  to  the  brink 
of  hysteria ;  the  sight  of  the  Croix  de  Guerre  of  poor 
Pierre  Dutout,  who  in  bequeathing  that  impressive  bit 
of  bronze  to  him,  hadn't  dreamed  that  he  was  leaving 
a  heritage  of  chicanery  along  with  it,  engendered  in 
HiUiard  a  thrill  which  nearly  found  its  outlet  in  a 
paroxysm  of  wild  laughter.  And  the  newspaper,  with 
Dutout's  most  genuine  citation  in  it!  Poor,  generous, 
warm-hearted,  sentimental  old  Dutout  in  the  next  bed! 
And  the  old  passport  photograph  which  he  had  hidden 
for  fear  that  his  real  name,  endorsed  on  it,  might  be 
cabled  home,  together  with  proof  to  the  world  that  he 
hadn't  been  a  hero  —  that  he  had  failed  in  this,  as  in 
every  other  undertaking  of  his  life.  And  all  the  dates 
in  accuracy!  And  if  any  one  cared  to  trace  back  the 
story,  where  was  the  flaw?  Where  was  there  a  loop- 
hole? And  who  would  recognize  Dick  Morgan  in  his 
cloak  and  mask  of  utter  miracle? 

Who  had? 

Lightning-like,  his  brain  included  all  the  salient  items 
of  the  picture  in  a  single  flash.  There  was  Dicky  Mor- 
gan, sailing  away  to  France  —  which  could  be  proved. 
There  was  a  Number,  and  a  Name  attached  to  it,  and 
—  since  Hilliard's  sturdy  defence  of  Dicky  Morgan  had 
had  a  grain  of  truth  in  it,  and  one  of  the  steps  of  his 
many-sided  progress  carefully  omitted  —  a  Name  had 
really  been  assumed,  and  had  endured  from  the  date  of 
enlistment  to  the  date  of  discharge.  It  was  the  In- 
dividual's recorded  name  in  the  army  and  at  Neuilly  — 
and  it  wasn't  Morgan  and  it  wasn't  Hilliard  and  it 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  63 

wasn't  Dutout.  No  one  here  knew  it,  or  ever  would 
know  it ;  even  Harmon  didn't  know  it ;  it  was  the  first 
sobriquet  of  a  shell-torn  Individual  who  had  been  taken 
to  Neuilly,  and  been  made  whole  again.  No  one  at 
Neuilly  had  ever  set  eyes  on  Dicky  Morgan  s  face! 
But  a  certain  man  named  Dutout  had  been  decorated 
and  died,  and  that  could  be  proved  —  was  proved ! 
Hilliard  had  borrowed  Dutout's  name  in  perfect  safety ; 
and  the  trail  was  cold.  And  here  was  a  fourth  man, 
Hilliard  — -  to  take  his  word  for  it  —  and  the  world  is 
larger  than  the  curiosity  of  sincere  people  to  encom- 
pass. 

No  —  if  a  Neuilly  surgeon  ever  told  as  one  of  the 
mysterious  chapters  of  the  war  what  had  happened  to  a 
certain  gloomy  Individual  that  summer,  the  name  would 
suggest  nothing.  And  as  far  as  checking  up  the  visits 
of  a  mythical  Hilliard  to  a  very  real  Dutout  was  con- 
cerned, who  would  profess  to  remember.?  The  testimony 
of  any  single  witness  would  be  immaterial. 

The  voice  of  Carol  Durant  was  echoing  in  Hilliard's 
ears,  and  Hilliard,  yielding  to  a  tidal  wave  of  reck- 
lessness, and  of  swelling  anger  at  imaginary  wrongs, 
looked  squarely  into  Carol's  eyes,  and  spoke  with  win- 
ning urgency. 

"  Yes,"  he  said.  '*  I  have  news  of  Morgan.  In 
fact,  I'm  here  in  Syracuse  solely  because  I  have  it. 
I've  just  been  telling  Mr.  Cullen  —  and  Miss  Cullen  — 
that  I  was  with  him  when  he  died." 

She  didn't  speak,  at  first;  she  merely  looked  at  Hil- 
liard and  grew  very  white,  and  her  lips  quivered.  She 
stood  there,  still  with  the  shadow  of  a  smile  arrested  in 
its  place,  and  presently  she  swayed  a  little,  and  reached 
out  with  her  hand  towards  the  back  of  a  convenient 


64  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

chair.  Armstrong  stepped  towards  her,  and  Angela 
Cullen  slipped  an  arm  around  her  waist. 

"He's  .  .  .  dead?"  she  repeated,  and  her  tone  was 
not  yet  free  from  a  certain  incredulity,  as  though  the 
fact  were  of  itself  impossible,  and  the  statement  of  it 
subject  to  discussion. 

"  Yes,  Miss  Durant." 

She  moistened  her  lips;  her  eyes  were  very  bright, 
unnaturally  bright,  so  that  Hilliard  was  fascinated, 
and  appalled. 

"  You.  .  .  .  You  know  that.?  "  she  asked,  again  with 
that  queer  inflexion  of  amazed  doubt. 

"  Yes,  I  know  it." 

The  others  were  standing  as  statues;  Mr.  Cullen, 
snatching  at  the  first  idea  of  consolation  to  present  it- 
self, fumbled  for  his  daughter's  other  hand,  which  still 
retained  the  trophy  a  better  man  had  won. 

"  Here's  what  they  gave  him,  Carol !  Look !  The 
Croix  de  Guerre!  Don't  let's  think  of  anything  but 
what  he  .  .  .  let's  be  proud  of  him !     I  — " 

"  Oh,  yes,"  she  said  inertly,  and  took  the  cross  in 
her  palm.  She  dropped  her  eyes  for  a  moment,  then 
raised  them  to  the  level  of  Hilliard's.  Her  calmness  was 
almost  that  of  stupor,  but  in  the  choking  silence  Hilliard 
imagined  he  could  sense  the  exertion  she  was  making 
to  retain  her  balance.  "  Didn't  he  send  some  word  to 
me.?" 

**  No."  Hilliard's  nod  was  very  ministerial.  "  No, 
I'm  sorry,  but  — " 

Her  eyebrows  lifted,  and  her  nostrils  dilated  the 
merest  trifle.  Her  breath  was  coming  more  rapidly 
now;  she  was  nearing  the  breaking-point  of  her  re- 
sistance, and  all  of  them  knew  it.     The  moment  was 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  65 

agonizedly  prolonged.  Hilliard,  gazing  without  a 
quaver  at  the  girl  he  had  thought  he  loved  beyond  all 
else  in  this  world  or  the  next,  was  singularly  relaxed 
as  he  observed  her  symptoms.  She  had  really  cared, 
then  ...  so  much  the  greater  pity  that  she  hadn't  kept 
him  caring  ...  as  she  might. 

"Can  that  be  possible.?"  she  said,  hardly  above  a 
whisper. 

"  I'm  sorry  —  but  — " 

"  I  wouldn't  have  believed  it  could  be  true."  She 
gave  a  long,  tremulous  breath,  and  looked  about  her, 
half-dazed  and  half-perceptive.  Her  eyes  strayed  back 
to  Hilliard.  "  Tell  m'e  about  it,"  she  said,  almost  in- 
audibly. 

"  Carol,  dear !  "  Angela  was  stimulated  to  active 
sympathy.     "  Sit  down  —  please!     Oh,  Mr.  Hilliard !  " 

"  No  —  yes,  I  .  .  .  I'll  sit  down  !  "  Her  ej^cs  seemed 
magnetized  to  HiUiard's.  "  Only  I  want  to  hear  —  I 
want  to  hear !  " 

"  Tell  her  from  the  beginning,"  said  CuUen,  mopping 
his  forehead.  "  Tell  her  just  the  way  you  told  us  a 
little  while  ago.  And  let's  all  of  us  sit  down  —  and. 
Jack,  you  know  the  lay  of  the  land,  don't  you?  Get 
a  glass  of  water  .  .   .  anything  else,  Carol  ?  " 

She  shook  her  head.  "Tell  me!"  she  said.  "I 
want  to  know!  " 

So  that  Hilliard,  inspirited  by  the  realization  that 
he  was  under  the  protectorate  of  the  shadows,  and 
gathering  fresh  assurance  with  every  sentence,  went 
through  that  tragic  narrative  a  second  time.  The  in- 
spiration of  it  was  doubly  strong;  his  love  of  the 
dramatic  and  his  sense  of  boundless  injury  kindled 
in  him  an  ardour  which  served  as  colouring  to  his  words ; 


66  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

the  nearness  of  Carol  to  liim  was  no  longer  a  deter- 
rent, but  rather  an  incentive,  because,  now  that  the 
initial  shock  of  the  meeting  was  over,  he  was  again  in- 
fected by  the  wrongs  that  he  had  suffered  —  wrongs 
for  which  he  had  always  felt  that  Carol  Durant  was 
finally  to  blame.  Once  she  had  pulled  his  bleeding  heart 
to  bits ;  he  found  himself,  to  his  own  wonderment, 
revelling  cruelly  in  the  opportunity  for  reprisal.  His 
rapid  changes  of  sentiment  astounded  him ;  only  a  few 
minutes  ago  he  had  been  ready  to  repent,  now  he  was 
implacable  —  and  this  was  after  the  arrival  of  the  only 
woman  he  had  ever  loved.  It  was  inconceivable,  and 
yet  it  was  a  fact  —  and  Hilliard  made  the  most  of  it. 
And  as  he  told  the  tale  of  Dicky  Morgan,  he  was  greatly 
engulfed  by  the  surge  of  Dicky  Morgan's  grievances ; 
his  voice  trembled  with  righteousness ;  he  gradually  lost 
his  loathing  for  the  part  he  played,  and  played  it  with 
every  atom  of  his  energy ;  he  was  a  defendant,  and  a  wit- 
ness and  a  judge  for  Dicky  Morgan  all  in  one  —  and 
his  verdict  was  for  acquittal.  There  was  no  mistaking 
his  earnestness ;  it  rang  with  every  syllable,  and  it  rang 
true,  because  now,  at  last,  his  resentment  to  the  in- 
justice he  fancied  to  have  suffered,  was  fully  concen- 
trated —  and  there  was  nothing  of  pity  or  of  gener- 
osity left  in  him.  His  pupils,  diminished  to  pin-pricks, 
were  grey  and  cold  as  the  northern  seas ;  Miss  Durant's 
eyes  had  never  left  his  face. 

"  And  that,"  she  said  presently,  *'  is  all  there  is  to 
tell?" 

"  That's  the  end,"  said  Hilliard  simply.  And  in  the 
long  hiatus  which  followed,  he  was  wondering  .  .  .  won- 
dering .  .  .  vague  aimless  thoughts,  with  no  begin- 
ning and  no  conclusive  outcome,  but  the  central  figure, 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  67 

flitting,  elusive,  was  always  Carol  Durant.  He  could 
turn  away  from  her  in  diffidence,  but  he  was  incapable 
of  shutting  her  out  of  his  mind ;  strive  as  he  would,  the 
images  of  ancient  days  kept  crowding  back  to  haunt 
him.  ...  He  told  himself  fiercely  that  he  hated  her, 
that  for  two  vengeful  years  he  had  hated  her,  that  he 
had  come  back  to  Syracuse  primarily  to  see  her  again, 
and  to  rejoice  in  the  fall  of  her  pride  ...  he  hated  her 
with  his  whole  soul  for  the  wounds  in  his  heart,  the 
wounds  of  his  body,  still  .  .  .  O  God !  why  couldn't  the 
surgeons  have  cut  away  his  memory,  and  left  him  peace ! 

He  was  prodigiously  relieved  when  Mr.  Cullen,  well- 
meaning  but  awkward,  blurted  out  a  paradox  of  eulogy. 
Armstrong,  eager  to  relieve  the  congested  ways  of 
thought,  ventured  into  the  realm  of  platitude  —  and 
something  in  his  manner  caught  at  Hilliard's  attention. 
The  man  was  actually  possessive  —  and  Hilliard,  hav- 
ing no  envy  of  his  possession,  cursed  him  on  general 
principles  nevertheless.  And  then  Hilliard  was  again 
in  demand ;  there  was  a  flood  of  incoherent  questioning, 
and  he  was  giving  details,  answering  queries,  volunteer- 
ing information  which  might  never  have  been  asked, 
describing  Ncuilly,  the  hospital,  the  surgeons,  the 
nurses,  the  wholly  indescribable  atmosphere  of  France  in 
war-time.  He  was  strengthening  his  position,  phrase  by 
phrase;  his  insouciance  redoubled;  he  had  laid  a  rock 
foundation  never  to  be  successfully  assailed.  There 
came  an  abrupt  pause ;  Miss  Durant  rose,  and  came  to 
him,  and  he  was  on  his  feet  to  meet  her. 

"  Thank  you,"  she  said,  giving  him  her  hands.  His 
heart  missed  a  beat ;  his  blood  ran  gelid.  "  Thank 
you.  If  you  can  ...  I  wish  you'd  talk  to  me  again 
before  jou  go  .  .  .  alone  ...  I  wish  it  very  much. 


68  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

You've  made  me  ...  at  least,  I  can  be  glad  you  were 
there  ...  to  help  him,  but  I  want  to  know  so  mucli 
more  ...  so  infinitely  much  more  .  .  ." 

The  others  had  risen,  too,  and  stood  a  little  apart, 
talking  meaningless  things  with  considerate  disregard 
of  the  two  at  the  veranda  railing.  A  fleeting  impulse 
clawed  at  Hilliard's  judgment;  he  yielded  to  it  blindly. 
It  meant  the  alteration  of  his  plan  of  action,  it  meant 
a  trifle  more  of  danger ;  and  a  gratuitous  risk  at  that, 
but  it  was  genius  —  genius  1 

"  Miss  Durant ! "  He  made  sure  that  the  others 
were  beyond  the  range  of  his  voice.  "  Miss  Durant ! 
There's  one  more  thing  you  must  know  ...  I  said  he 
sent  no  word  to  you;  that  was  true  as  far  as  I  knew 
the  truth,  but  there's  one  letter  he  started  to  write  — 
just  at  the  last  ...  it  wasn't  addressed  to  any  one; 
I  didn't  know  who  it  was  for.  I  brought  it  with  me 
on  the  chance  that  I'd  find  out.  I  didn't  want  to  speak 
of  it  before  every  one,  because  if  it's  yours,  I  thought 
you'd  .  .  .  you  understand,  don't  you?  .  .  .  but  from 
what  Mr.  Cullen  said  just  a  minute  before  you  came, 
and  from  .  .  .  from  other  things  .  .  .  I'm  almost  posi- 
tive it  was  meant  for  you.  It's  only  a  few  lines  .  .  . 
he  wasn't  ever  strong  enough  to  finish  it  .  .  .  I've  got 
it  at  the  hotel  now.     May  I  bring  it  to  you  to-morrow  ?  " 

She  held  her  breath  for  an  instant ;  her  mouth  quiv- 
ered.    She  looked  at  him  searchingly. 

"  Surely.  I  ...  I  live  just  across  on  the  corner, 
Mr.  Hilliard.  The  brick  house.  Can  you  come 
early?" 

"How  soon?"  He  was  telling  himself  that  his 
former  passions  were  atrophied;  she  was  no  longer  able 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  69 

to  disquiet  him.  His  inspiration  was  commercial  — 
strictly  commercial. 

"  In  the  morning?     At  .  .  .  eleven?" 

"  ril  come  gladly." 

"  And  .  .  .  and  I  want  to  thank  you  now,"  she  said 
in  a  tone  which  would  have  fallen  as  a  blessing  upon 
the  ears  of  any  other  man  alive,  "  for  speaking  as 
though  you  loved  him.  And  for  all  you  did  for  him. 
And  for  .  .  .  for  coming  to  us.  Because  all  that  makes 
you  seem  .  .  .  how  can  I  tell  you,  Mr.  Hilliard?  .  .  . 
Perhaps  you  know  already  .  .  .  perhaps  you  canH 
know  .  .  .  but  I'm  trying  to  tell  you,  because  he  was 
...  he  was  one  of  my  very  dearest  friends." 

His  brain  snapped;  he  bent  down  to  her. 

"  You  loved  him  —  too  ?  "  he  said,  uncontrollably. 

"  Yes,"  she  said.     "  Once  —  I  loved  him,  too !  " 


ALONE  in  the  appointed  guest  room  of  the  Cullen 
home  —  for  Mr.  Cullen  had  been  as  good  as  his 
word,  and  sent  a  car  to  fetch  his  visitor's  belongings  — 
Hilliard  lighted  a  King's  size  cigarette  (an  acquired 
taste,  but  advisable  as  a  minor  deception,  since  he  had 
long  been  notorious  for  his  taste  in  cigars)  and  grinned 
expansively.  He  was  spent  by  the  force  of  his  owti 
fervency,  but  the  reaction  was  pleasurable,  and  he  had 
no  conscience  to  harass  him.  He  strolled  lazilj^  across 
the  room,  examining  with  critical  interest  its  costly  and 
horrendous  furniture,  solid  and  pre-Victorian,  and  pay- 
ing especial  heed  to  the  old-fashioned  rugs  and  hang- 
ings. 

"  Cullen  hasn't  spent  a  dollar  on  the  house,"  he  said 
reflectively.  "  Nothing  new  downstairs  and  nothing 
new  up  here  ...  all  he's  done  has  been  to  buy  the 
infant  some  grand  clothes,  and  hire  a  flock  of  servants, 
and  get  a  string  of  motors.  So  if  he  hasn't  invested 
everything,  he's  got  all  his  war-profits  yet.  I  ought  to 
nick  him  for  twenty-five  thousand  easy!  And  when  he 
fired  me  he  said  I  was  a  rotten  salesman.  Oh,  I  don't 
know." 

Leisurely  he  began  to  undress,  but  before  his  boots 
were  quite  unlaced,  he  sat  back  comfortably  in  his  chair, 
and  meditated. 

"  All  serene  so  far,"  he  said.  "  But  when  Carol  came 
in  .  .  ."  He  shook  his  head  vigorously.  "  Well,  it's 
over   .    .    .    anyway.     The   Doctor    .    .    ."     Hilliard's 

70 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  71 

face  darkened.  "  There's  the  man  /  want  to  get  at ! 
Pious  old  hypocrite !  And  he  didn't  think  I  desei'ved 
to  be  in  the  family  !  Sort  of  hate  to  let  him  make  money 
out  of  this  deal,  but  it's  all  in  the  game.  Coals  of  fire ! 
But  ten  thousand's  a  lot  from  the  Doctor  .  .  .  we'll 
say  ten  thousand." 

He  closed  his  eyes  dreamily;  and  his  thoughts  re- 
verted from  Dr.  Durant  to  the  Doctor's  daughter. 

"  Carol  —  Carol !  "  he  murmured.  **  One  minute 
there,  I  thought  I'd  crack.  And  I  was  '  one  of  her 
dearest  friends.'  I  was,  was  I.'^  And  she  loved  me  — 
once.  Once!  Pity  it  wasn't  twice !  Pity  she  and  the 
Doctor  didn't  say  so  the  night  they  kicked  me  out  so 
neatly  — '  only  to  meet  again  and  share  the  inward 
sweetness  of  the  other's  heart ! '  Well  .  .  .  business  is 
business  .  .  .  After  they've  made  their  money  out  of  it, 
and  found  out  this  man  Hilliard's  some  little  gold- 
plated  whirlwind  all  by  himself  .  .  .  Gad!  can't  I  see 
their  faces  when  they  get  the  truth  of  it !  " 

With  the  cigarette  drooping  from  his  lips,  he  stood 
up,  and  swept  a  clear  space  on  the  table.  From  his 
suitcase  he  exhumed  a  tablet  of  thin  transparent  writ- 
ing paper  of  a  kind  not  sold  in  America :  it  was  the 
paper  on  which  the  letter  to  CuUen  from  Richard  Mor- 
gan had  been  written,  and  it  was  sheer  luck  that  Hil- 
liard  had  brought  the  remainder  of  the  tablet  from  New 
York  with  him.  He  tossed  a  blob  of  ink  from  his 
fountain  pen,  and  inspected  it  critically. 

"  Too  black,"  he  decided,  and  went  to  the  bath- 
room, where  he  half-emptied  the  reservoir  of  the  pen, 
and  re-filled  it  with  water. 

"  That  ought  to  be  just  about  right  .  .  .  sort  of 
pale  and  mysterious  and  war-strength." 


72  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

He  seated  himself  at  the  table,  took  the  pen  in  his 
left  hand,  and  inscribed  circles  on  the  paper;  scribbled 
a  meaningless  sentence,  and  laughed  gently. 

"  Funny  how  some  people  can  be  ambidextrous  and 
take  so  long  to  realize  it.  If  I  hadn't  caught  a  bullet 
in  my  arm,  and  tried  to  write  left-handed  in  the  hospital, 
I'd  give  myself  away  up  here  in  no  time.  Writing's 
too  blamed  distinctive.  But,  as  it  is.  Left  Hand,  very 
large  and  plain,  is  Henry  Hilliard  — "  Here  he  shifted 
the  pen  to  the  other  hand  — "  And  Right  —  and,  small 
and  curlicue,  is  poor,  dead  Dickj-  Morgan  — '  one  of  her 
dearest  friends.'  I'm  glad  I  killed  that  chap  off  —  he 
never  amounted  to  a  hill  of  beans  anyway.  But  this 
Hilliard  person  —  a  live  wire,  boy,  a  live  wire !  " 

And  with  a  grin  of  sardonic  humour,  he  wrote  on  the 
flimsy  paper,  slowly  and  a  little  irregularly,  as  though 
in  physical  discomfort: 

"  Neuilly,  7-19-15. 

"  No  matter  what  you  ever  think,  no  matter  what 
you  have  ever  thought,  I  have  loved  you." 

He  grimaced,  pondered  diligently,  and  made  a  cor- 
rection. 

"  I  have  always  loved  you  more  than  my  own  life. 
You  said  my  ideals  had  fallen  —  do  you  think  so 
now?  I  don't,  dearest;  I  think  they're  almost  what 
you  would  have  them.  And  it  may  be  that  simply 
because  of  that,  I've  loved  you  more  every  day, 
and  — " 

Hilliard  sat  back,  and  his  eyes  were  softly  luminous. 

"  Suppose,  by  the  luck  of  the  very  devil,  I  should  fall 

in  love  with  her  again.'*  "  he  said  aloud.     "  Suppose  I 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  7S 

should !  "  He  tossed  away  his  cigarette,  and  rested  his 
head  in  his  hands.  "  Oh,  Carol !  I  did  care  ...  ! " 
His  shoulders  shook  spasmodically ;  then  all  at  once  he 
flung  himself  out  of  the  chair,  and  took  to  tramping  the 
floor  in  a  hurricane  of  emotion.  His  face  was  set  in 
granite ;  he  caught  sight  of  it  in  a  mirror,  halted,  and 
himself  was  stunned  by  the  transcendant  mask  which 
covered  his  soul  in  revolt.  The  work  of  the  surgeons 
was  not  far  short  of  miraculous ;  he  couldn't  upset  it, 
not  by  any  effort  of  his  will.  The  eyes  might  flash,  or 
lower,  or  chill  —  the  other  features  were  still  calm  and 
strong  in  all  their  splendid  glory.  Even  now,  the 
face  which  he  saw  reflected  in  the  mirror  was  one  to 
convert  the  most  hurried  of  all  passing  strangers  to  a 
new,  if  unformed,  assurance  in  the  brotherhood  of  man. 

"  You  dirty  blackguard !  "  said  Hilliard,  showing  his 
teeth.  He  went  pensively  back  to  the  letter,  studied 
it,  gazed  at  the  floor. 

"  But  after  all,"  he  said,  "  no  matter  what  she  or 
anybody  else  did  to  me  .  .  .  and  if  I  can  kill  two  birds 
with  one  stone,  and  be  what  I've  wanted  to  be  —  all  ex- 
cept this  damnable  way  of  going  about  it.  .  .  .  She 
acted  as  though  this  infernal  lying  letter  would  please 
her  —  that's  not  the  point;  it's  a  quicker  way  to  get  at 
the  Doctor.  .  .  .  Well,  it  gets  her  a  letter  I  never  in- 
tended to  write  .  .  .  and  Dutout's  war  cross,  too  .  .  . 
that'll  make  it  all  the  easier.  .  .  .  I'll  give  her  that. 
Angela  was  going  to  have  it,  still.  ...  So  I  was  '  one 
of  her  dearest  friends,'  was  I?  What's  that  worth  to 
Henry  Hilliard,  bringing  back  the  news  from  the 
front?"  He  sniff'ed  scornfully.  *' Ten  thousand  dol- 
lars —  I  hope.  And  the  Doctor'll  make  twenty  out  of 
it.  .  .  .  Gad!  that's  turning  the  other  cheek  with  a 


74*  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

vengeance !  Hanged  if  I  don't  almost  wish  he'd  lose  his 
rotten  money !  But  that  can't  be  helped  —  I'll  get  some 
satisfaction  somehow." 

He  re-read  the  unfinished  note,  folded  it,  creased  it 
heavily  for  verisimilitude,  and  gave  it  the  final  exam- 
ination. 

"  Business  ...  is  business,"  he  said,  musing. 
"  That  was  a  pretty  sporty  thing  for  me  to  do  .  .  .  to 
tell  her  there  was  a  letter.  Bit  of  a  chance,  too.  And 
after  smashing  our  engagement,  she  could  stand  there 
and  tell  me  .  .  .  oh,  rubbish !  So  suppose  we  say  .  .  . 
fifteen  thousand  from  the  Doctor !  But  confound  it  — 
the  better  salesman  I  am,  the  more  I  get  out  of  hiiriy  the 
more  he  makes !  Whew !  Where's  the  satisfaction  in 
that!  .  .  ." 

His  pupils  had  narrowed  again,  giving  the  lie  to  the 
sweetness  of  his  smiling  mouth.  Then  the  smile  faded, 
and  Hilliard  was  staring  fixedly  at  the  document  in  his 
hands. 

"  I  wonder  who  in  thunder  that  man  Armstrong  is," 
said  the  masquerader  who  had  prided  himself  that  he  no 
longer  cared. 


VI 


HE  wakened  early;  and  in  that  state  of  half- 
conscious  revery  which  has  less  of  worldliness  in 
it  than  perhaps  any  other  state  of  human  existence,  he 
relaxed  utterly,  and  gave  himself  over  to  his  random 
thoughts.  He  had  no  real  sensation  of  thinking;  his 
mind  was  merely  a  rendezvous  in  which  a  train  of  phan- 
toms, one  by  one,  could  rest  an  instant  before  they 
passed  on  as  they  had  entered,  aimlessly.  And  as  long 
as  he  lay  thus  vegetating,  he  was  subtly  aware  that  he 
was  very  peaceful  and  content ;  but  presently,  when  his 
brain  had  yawned  and  stretched  itself,  and  begun  to  set 
about  its  usual  functions  (or,  in  other  words,  when  Hil- 
liard  was  sufficiently  aroused  to  resume  his  usual  intro- 
spectiveness)  he  was  extremely  unhappy,  and  not  in  the 
least  vainglorious. 

At  the  outset,  he  couldn't  account  for  the  basic  cause 
of  this  unhappiness ;  sleep  had  so  cleared  away  the  ac- 
cumulated dust  of  his  troubles  that  for  a  puzzled  inter- 
val he  was  as  sincere  and  innocent  as  though  he  had 
never  tempted  fate,  nor  planned  an  ambush  for  society. 
Indeed,  there  was  an  appreciable  space  during  which  his 
memory  failed  to  include  the  events  of  the  last  few 
days  —  he  was  lying  there  and  thinking  the  thoughts  of 
Dicky  Morgan,  racking  his  intellect  to  know  why  he 
should  wake  up  with  such  a  heavy  burden  of  regrets. 
Then  suddenly,  stunningly,  the  whole  kaleidoscope  was 
spinning  out  its  vivid  forms  before  him,  and  Hilliard 
groaned,  rolled  over  towards  the  light,  and  began,  dully, 
to  remember. 

75 


76  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

He  was  gloomy,  and  the  taste  of  ashes  was  in  his 
mouth,  but  simultaneously,  now  that  his  mind  was 
active  once  more,  he  had  a  momentary  burst  of  pride  for 
his  recent  craftsmanship  —  it  was  a  pride  in  which  the 
dominating  element  was  a  sort  of  professional  regard 
for  his  own  ability  as  a  protagonist,  rather  than  conceit 
for  the  results  attained.  But  as  for  genuine  con- 
trition —  never !  The  world  was  committed  to  the  doc- 
trine of  give  and  take  —  and  just  as  formerly  it  had 
given  to  him  of  its  bitterness,  so  could  it  take  in  turn 
what  Milliard  had  to  offer  it. 

But  there  were  fresh  grievances  to  brood  over  ...  he 
scowled,  and  struggled  to  remember  what  it  was  that 
had  risen  out  of  thin  air  and  angered  him  last  night, 
at  the  very  instant  of  his  dropping  off  to  sleep.  Not 
the  Cullens,  nor  Carol  herself,  nor  Armstrong  .  .  .  but 
wait  a  moment ! 

It  came  to  him,  then,  accompanied  by  a  slight  accel- 
eration of  his  pulses,  that  he  had  resented  the  proprie- 
tary manner  of  this  stranger  Armstrong :  not  that  Arm- 
strong had  actually  said  an3'thing  or  done  anything  to 
cause  remark,  but  that  he  had  carried  himself  with  such 
an  indefinable  assurance  towards  Carol  —  an  assurance 
which  was  aU  the  more  significant  because  it  wasn't 
pushed  forward,  wasn't  conspicuous.  He  wondered, 
with  a  recurring  spasm  of  logic,  what  justification  he 
possibly  had  for  resentment,  or  even  casual  criticism 
of  Armstrong's  behaviour.  He  was  no  dog  in  the 
manger !  His  old  relations  with  Carol  Durant  were 
over ;  why  in  the  name  of  Heaven  should  he  resent  Arm- 
strong.'^ 

But  ...  as  long  as  he  was  on  the  subject  .  .  .  who 
was  Armstrong.?    Whence  and  wliither,  Armstrong.?    A 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  77 

newcomer  to  S^^racuse  (that  is,  within  two  years)  and 
already  proprietary  —  Milliard  frowned,  and  rubbed 
his  eyes,  and  wondered  anew.  He  was  a  trifle  amused 
and  a  trifle  ashamed  of  himself ;  was  it  credible  that  he 
could  be  jealous  of  a  man  who  had  merely  appropriated 
what  Hilliard  had  no  further  interest  in?  How  incon- 
sistent .  .  ,  and  yet  how  superbly  characteristic  of 
human  nature!  Hilliard  chuckled  to  himself  in  recog- 
nition of  it,  and  dismissed  the  proposition  as  unworthy 
of  further  attention.  Dismissed  it,  yes  ...  as  a  child 
dismisses  a  rubber  ball  with  an  elastic  cord  attached 
to  it.   .   .   . 

From  below  stairs,  a  Japanese  gong  chimed  softly, 
and  Hilliard,  without  delaying  another  instant,  leaped 
to  the  floor.  Half  an  hour  later,  bathed,  shaved  and 
dressed,  he  descended  complacently;  the  second  day  of 
his  remarkable  performance  was  begun. 

The  Cullens,  father  and  daughter,  were  waiting 
patiently  for  him  in  a  breakfast-room  which  was  partly 
a  summer  porch,  or  a  summer  porch  converted  into  a 
breakfast-room,  depending  on  your  first  impression  as 
you  entered  it.  They  greeted  him  cheerfully;  and  he 
was  glad  that  grief  hadn't  clung  to  their  eyelids  ;  he 
would  have  felt  depressed,  even  although  he  would  have 
sensed  the  hidden  compliment.  After  all,  Morgan 
hadn't  exactly  been  beloved  by  Mr.  Cullen,  and  Angela 
had  the  mental  resiliency  of  youth  —  it  was  better  so. 
And  Hilliard,  quick  to  grasp  the  nearest  handle  of  di- 
plomacy, saw  that  cheerfulness  on  his  own  part  would 
help  the  situation,  for  now  that  his  duty  as  a  courier 
was  over,  there  was  no  need  for  long  protracted  melan- 
choly. 

It  was  a  cheerful  trio,  then,  that  finally  sat  down  to 


78  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

breakfast;  there  was  no  exhilaration  about  it,  but  at 
least  there  was  no  sombre  cloud  of  mourning.  Angela, 
behind  the  coffee  urn,  had  occasional  moments  of  pen- 
siveness,  but  that  was  to  be  expected,  and  condoned; 
indeed,  Hilliard  held  himself  to  be  greatly  favoured 
by  even  this.  And  he  was  favoured  not  only  by  the  evi- 
dence of  her  regard  for  the  man  he  once  had  been ;  as 
time  went  on,  he*  came  to  understand  that  she  was 
mildly  interested  in  his  present  self.  Her  brief,  un- 
studied glances  showed  this ;  and  Hilliard,  now  that  the 
fear  of  exposure  had  largely  gone  from  him,  encouraged 
her  —  partly  because  it  was  good  business,  and  partly 
because  it  pleased  him  to  be  mischievous. 

She  was  imaginative,  and  Hilliard's  pose  was  calcu- 
lated to  appeal  to  a  lively  imagination.  He  had  been  in 
France,  he  had  seen  a  corner  of  the  great  adventure ;  he 
had  about  him  an  aura  of  unusual  accomphshment,  and 
he  had  a  face  which  was  supernaturally  attractive. 
These  factors  aided  him  in  the  beginning,  and  to  them, 
with  keen  accuracy'  of  design,  he  added  a  fifth  which  was 
perhaps  the  most  efficacious  of  all  five  —  he  treated  her 
not  as  a  young  girl,  but  with  the  respectful  deference 
which  belongs  to  a  mature  woman,  a  mistress  of  a  house- 
hold, and  a  hostess  in  her  own  right.  She  was  charmed 
and  captivated,  and  so  was  her  father  —  most  assuredly 
he  was !  So  charmed,  in  fact,  that  instead  of  leaving 
for  his  office  at  half-past  eight,  he  lingered  until  half- 
past  nine^  so  captivated,  that  as  his  limousine  slid 
quietly  down  the  long,  steep  hill  of  James  Street,  he 
found  himself  ascribing  a  new  degree  of  credit  to  Dicky 
Morgan  for  the  simple  reason  that  Dicky  Morgan  had 
gained  the  full  esteem  of  such  a  friend  as  Hilliard. 
Such  a  substantial,  polished,  earnest,  worldly  friend! 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  79 

A  man  with  such  a  fund  of  general  knowledge,  and  of 
such  great  vigour  in  imparting  it.  A  man  who  asked 
such  intelligent  questions,  for  example,  about  the  com- 
mercial possibilities  of  Syracuse,  and  comprehended 
all  the  intricacies  of  the  labour  problem,  the  raw- 
materials  problem,  the  transportation  problem,  the  pro- 
duction problem.  A  man  who,  in  addition  to  his  under- 
standing of  the  war,  and  international  politics,  and 
financial  matters,  could  also  talk  the  language  of  a  man- 
ufacturer .  .  .  and  how  could  Cullen  dream  that  Hil- 
liard  was  cleverly  dragging  into  conversation  the  self- 
same theories,  the  selfsame  data,  which,  on  innumerable 
occasions,  he  had  heard  from  Cullen's  very  lips  not 
many  months  ago ! 

A  mighty  nice  young  man,  thought  Cullen.  A  man  of 
soundest  judgment,  through  and  through.  A  man  of 
briUiant  intellect  and  razor-edged  analysis.  Had  he 
not  said,  and  furnished  illustrations  from  his  broad  ex- 
perience, exactly  what  Cullen  himself  had  said,  in  regard 
to  labour,  and  materials,  and  transportation,  and  pro- 
duction, these  half  a  dozen  years.?  Cullen  sat  back  and 
smiled  triumphantly.  It  does  a  man  good  to  hear  his 
pet  convictions  approved,  expanded,  and  laid  down  as 
axioms  by  another  wise  man. 

Back  on  the  wide  veranda,  Angela  had  curled  up  com- 
fortably in  the  Gloucester  hammock,  and  beside  her, 
Hilliard  was  enjoying  a  King's-size  cigarette.  He  was 
enjoying,  too,  this  rare  interlude  of  respite;  he  looked 
across  at  Angela,  and  thanked  his  stars  for  the  invita- 
tion which  had  made  this  quiet  hour  possible.  She  was 
so  ineffably  innocent,  so  free  from  any  taint  of  specious 
worldliness,  that  her  mere  presence  refreshed  and 
cheered  him ;  he  felt  a  delicious  release  from  the  strain 


80  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

of  yesterday,  and  he  enjoyed  it  to  the  full,  knowing 
the  limitation  that  must  necessarily  be  put  upon  it. 

She  lifted  her  eyes,  caught  Hilliard  smiling  at  her,  and 
blushed  furiously,  not  for  any  shame  accruing  to  her, 
but  because  she  had  arrived  at  the  age  of  easy  blushes. 

"  I  .  .  .  suppose  you're  going  over  to  Carol's  pretty 
soon,"  she  said,  constrained  to  say  something,  and 
grasping  at  the  first  available  idea. 

"  So  anxious  to  get  rid  of  me?  "  he  asked,  amused. 

"  Oh,  no!  "  Horror  was  in  her  tone,  and  mortifica- 
tion. "  Only  ...  I  was  thinking  .  .  .  this  can't  be 
the  pleasantest  morning  in  the  world  for  you." 

"  No  —  and  almost  yes,"  said  Hilliard,  soberly.  "  I 
hope  I  haven't  yet  reached  the  stage  where  I  can't  agree 
with  Walt  Whitman  —  remember  where  he  says  that  if 
you  keep  your  face  to  the  sunlight,  the  shadows  will  all 
fall  behind  you?  Or  aren't  you  acquainted  with  the 
gentleman?  " 

"  N-no,"  she  said  dubiously.  "  I'm  not.  But  I  can 
see  the  point,  just  the  same.  .  .  .  It's  awfully  curious, 
but  ever  since  I  woke  up  this  morning,  I've  had  the 
queerest  sensation  —  almost  glad  about  something. 
It's  made  me  feel  so  wicked  —  I  can't  make  it  out  at  all." 
She  regarded  him  seriously.  "  I  suppose  you  think  I'm 
heartless,"  she  said. 

"  On  the  contrary." 

"Really?" 

"  Really." 

"  Well,  I'm  glad  of  that,"'  she  said,  relieved.  *'  Be- 
cause I  didn't  think  anybody  on  earth  could  understand 
but  me.  .  .  ,  You  don't  mind  talking  about  Dick,  do 
you?" 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  81 

<'  No."  Hilliard  shook  his  head,  but  instinctively  he 
went  on  guard  again. 

«<  You  see,"  she  said,  swinging  gently,  '*  I  never  had 
any  of  my  friends  ...  I  mean,  I  .  ,  .  you  know.  I 
can't  quite  say  it  —  it  sounds  sort  of  sacrilegious,  some- 
how. But  everybody  else  is  still  here.  I  should  think 
I  ought  to  feel  ever  so  much  worse  than  I  do  .  .  . 
wouldn't  you  ?  " 

"  Not  necessarily."  Hilliard's  brows  furrowed. 
"  There  are  always  two  ways  of  looking  at  it." 

«  Yes,  I  know.  And  I'm  looking  at  it  the  other  way." 
She  hesitated,  and  suddenly  glanced  up,  and  leaned  for- 
ward. Her  lips  were  parted  slightly,  and  in  her  eyes 
there  was  awe-struck  wonder,  not  without  a  certain 
mistiness,  and  a  certain  calm.  "  I  .  .  .  I'm  almost 
glad,''  she  said,  under  her  breath.  "  I  don't  understand 
me  at  all,  Mr.  Hilliard  ...  he  was  the  nearest  to  a 
brother  I  ever  had  .  .  .  and  I  always  did  want  a  big 
brother.  And  when  he  went  away  I  cried  ray  eyes  out. 
And  last  night,  I  ...  oh,  it  was  awful!  "  She  sighed 
as  though  in  exquisite  care.  "  But  this  morning,  when 
it's  so  sunshiny  and  quiet,  and  I've  had  a  chance  to  think 
.  .  .  and  remember  a  lot  of  things  you  never  even  heard 
of,  why—" 

"  What  things  ?  "  he  demanded  quickly. 
"  I'd  rather  not  say."  She  sat  up  a  little  straighter, 
and  stopped  swinging.  "But  I  can't  cry  any  more. 
That  part  of  it's  all  gone.  And  I'm  happy,  in  a  funny 
solemn  sort  of  way.  You  don't  suppose  there's  any 
Elsie  Dinsmore  in  me,  do  you?  " 

Hilliard's  mouth  twitched,  but  he  controlled  himself 
as  he  perceived  her  very  genuine  seriousness. 


82  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

"  No,"  he  said.     "  Far  from  it.  .  .  .  Go  on,  please." 

"  That's  all.  It's  so  unlike  me,  I'm  almost  scared. 
But  I  can't  help  feeling  .  .  .  you've  read  '  A  Tale  of 
Two  Cities,'  haven't  you?  And  what  Sydney  Carton 
said  —  I  mean  what  it  says  he  would  have  said  if  he'd 
been  a  prophet?  About  his  going  to  do  a  better  thing 
than  he'd  ever  done  —  and  all  that?  " 

"  Yes,"  Billiard  nodded.  "  '  It  is  a  far,  far  better 
thing  that  I  do,  than  I  have  ever  done ;  it  is  a  far,  far 
better  rest  that  I  go  to,  than  I  have  ever  known.'  " 

"  That's  it  1  "  she  said  softly.  "  WeU,  that's  how  I 
feel  about  Dick  .  .  .  and  you  couldn't  cry  if  you  felt 
that  way  about  anybody,  could  you?  " 

"  No,"  said  Hilliard.  ^  "  If  you  really  do." 

"  I  do,"  she  said  steadily.  "  I  do.  And  it's  just  the 
way  he'd  have  wanted  to  ...  to  have  things  work  out. 
A  little  excitement,  and  a  little  danger,  and  a  little 
glory,  and  a  little  .  .  .  praise.  There's  really  not 
much  else  anyway,  is  there?  " 

"  Not  very  much,"  he  agreed,  presently. 

"  I  wanted  to  talk  to  you  before  you  saw  Carol,"  she 
said.  "  Because  Carol  doesn't  ...  I  don't  think  she'll 
exactly  feel  as  I  do  about  this  ...  I  know  she  won't. 
Maybe  it's  because  Dick  and  I  were  chums,  and  she  and 
Dick  were  .  .  .  oh,  you  know.  It's  different.  You 
ought  to  take  that  into  consideration  —  when  you  talk 
to  her,  I  mean.  I  don't  mean  I  don't  care,  because  I 
do  —  terribly  —  but  I  ...  I  can  see  what  it  meant  to 
Dick  .  .  .  and  how  it's  sort  of  fitting,  this  way  —  as 
long  as  it  had  to  come  some  way  —  and  all  I've  got  left 
is  a  heart-ache  and  a  big,  glad  thankfulness  that  he 
could  go  in  and  do  something  to  help  out  .  .  .  and  I 
know  how  he'd  have  loved  it,  and  picked  this  out  of  every 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  88 

possible  way  to  ...  to  end  things,  but  Carol  .  .  . 
she's  different." 

*'  How?  "     Hilliard's  voice  was  even,  but  very  low. 

"  Older,"  she  said,  looking  away. 

"Yes?" 

"  And  .  .  .  and  they  were  going  to  marry  each  other 
sometime." 

"  But  wasn't  that  broken  off?  " 

"  Yes,  but  she  was  waiting." 

"Waiting?" 

"  Why,  of  course." 

Hilliard's  breath  quickened. 

"  I  should  have  guessed  that  this  Mr.  Armstrong  — ^" 

"  Oh,  but  that  wasn't  until  she  thought  Dick  wasn't 
ever  coming  back.  And  besides,  she  isn't  really  crazy 
about  him  —  just  lonesome." 

"  Indeed."  Hilliard  compelled  himself  to  relax. 
"  So  you  think  she'll  be  .  .   .  hurt?  " 

"  Hurt !  "  Angela's  voice  was  thin  with  emphasis. 
"  Rather !  " 

"  If  there's  anything  you  think  I'd  better  say,  or  not 
say  — "  He  rose,  out  of  sheer  inability  to  endure  this 
ingenuous  estimate  of  Carol's  heartache.  "  Perhaps 
you'll  tell  me  —  because  it's  time  for  me  to  be  going 
over." 

Angela  had  risen,  too,  and  stood  beside  him.  Her 
features  were  composed,  but  still  suggestive  of  inward 
emotions  a  little  too  tender  to  convey.  Her  eyes  were 
very  soft,  just  then,  and  into  them  had  crept  a  spark  of 
that  all-embracing  devotion  and  compassion  which, 
when  it  comes  to  its  full  expression,  is  called  maternal. 
It  startled  Hilliard;  he  had  never  regarded  Angela  in 
exactly  this  light.     It  stirred  him;  for  two  years  ago, 


84.  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

his  dashing  little  friend  had  been  anything  but  altru- 
istic. She  had,  instead,  been  rather  the  reverse.  The 
tomboy. 

"  If  there's  anybody  in  the  world,"  she  said,  "  who 
could  give  Carol  any  consolation  just  now,  it's  you.  .  .  . 
Carol  isn't  the  kind  of  girl  who'd  go  tell  her  troubles  to 
a  minister  .  .  .  but  she's  going  to  need  a  whole  lot  of 
talking  to,  or  she'll  just  wilt.  .  .  .  Dad  and  I  were 
going  over  it  this  morning,  before  you  came  down.  .  ,  . 
I  don't  suppose  you  ever  were  a  minister,  but  you  look 
as  though  everybody  could  come  to  you  and  tell  'most 
everything,  and  you'd  help  .  .  .  anyway,  you'd  try  to. 
So  I  wish  you'd  .  .  .  you'd  sit  and  listen  .... 
Carol's  got  to  talk  to  somebody,  and  when  you're  hurt 
the  way  she  is,  you  can't  talk  to  your  family  .  .  .  and 
you  were  a  friend  of  Dick's.  And  .  .  ."  She  swal- 
lowed, and  went  on  more  slowly.  "  You  can  use  your 
own  judgment,  of  course,  but  if  /  were  in  your  place, — 
I'd  lie." 

"  Lie !  "  he  repeated,  aghast. 

"  Yes,  I  would !  He  ...  he  must  have  sent  her  some 
word,  Mr.  Hilliard !  He  must  have !  "  She  w(*s  des- 
perately serious  now,  and  thoroughly  aroused.  "  It 
means  the  whole  world  to  her  !  It's  everything !  Why, 
even  /'ve  got  more  than  she  has,  and  she  was  waiting  for 
him  to  come  back  to  her !  I'd  lie  myself  black  in  the 
face,  but  I'd  tell  her  ^OTW^thing  —  tell  her  anything  I 
could  think  of  to  make  her  believe  he  hadn't  stopped 
caring!  It  can't  do  any  harm  now.  It  can't  hurt 
you.  And  7  won't  even  ask  you  whether  you  do  or  not. 
Only  you're  here,  and  she'll  trust  you  — " 

"Wnishe.?" 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  85 

"How  could  she  help  it?  And  .  .  .  and  that's  all. 
Please  don't  let  her  think  he  didn't  care !  " 

Hilliard  stood  irresolute ;  chaos  in  his  brain.  Beside 
him,  Angela  looked  up  in  supreme  appeal,  intent  upon 
the  charity  she  had  begged  for  another.  There  was  no 
blot  on  her  conscience;  she  had  asked  for  a  lie,  but  a 
splendid,  forgiving  lie,  and  she  was  fearful  only  that 
Hilliard's  rectitude  would  forbid  the  utterance. 

"  I'll  .  .  .  see,"  he  said  with  difficulty.     "  I'll  see." 

"Won't  you  promise  me.'^  I  won't  ask  you  after- 
wards, if  you  — " 

"  Does  it  mean  so  much  to  you-f*  " 

"  Ever  and  ever  so  much.  .  .  .  Won't  you  please 
promise.?  " 

He  gazed  at  her  a  moment,  yielded  with  a  show  of 
reluctance. 

"  Very  well  —  I  promise." 

"  I  knew  you  would !  "  she  cried,  exultant. 

"Did  you?     How?" 

"  Because  you  would,"  she  said  enigmatically. 
"  That's  the  kind  of  man  you  are.  I  knew.  You'd  do 
anything  in  the  world  for  a  friend  of  yours  — " 

"  And  you  think  I'm  doing  this  for  you?  " 

"  Oh,  no !  "  she  said,  withdrawing  slightly.  "  I  .  ,  • 
I'm  not  as  conceited  as  that!     It's  for  Dick." 

"  No,"  said  Hilliard.     "  For  you." 

"  But  rm  not  ...  I  mean,  I  thought  — " 

"  My  newest  friend  is  a  friend  just  the  same." 

"  Then  you  wouldn't  have  .  .  .  have  told  even  a  kind 
lie  like  that  for  Dick?" 

"  Perhaps  not." 

"Or  to  help  Carol?" 


86  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

"  Would  you  suspect  it  of  me?  " 

"  Then  I  don't  see  — "  She  was  inextricably 
puzzled. 

"  Because  you've  asked  it,"  he  said,  "  and  because  it's 
the  dearest,  most  generous,  most  thoughtful  thing  I 
ever  heard  of  in  all  my  life.  .  .  .  And  after  that,  can't 
we  be  truly  friends?  " 

Flushed,  perplexed,  honoured,  she  gave  him  her  hand 
with  a  hesitancy  which  betrayed  the  deep  sense  of  com- 
pliment she  felt. 

"  I  don't  think  I  could  be  prouder  of  anything  that 
could  possibly  happen  to  me,"  she  said. 

Was  it  worth  the  blatant  mummery  he  had  conceived 
and  executed?  Was  it  not  worth  that,  and  infinitely 
more? 

She  was  proud  of  his  friendship  .  .  .  and  she  shared 
that  distinction  with  no  one  else  in  the  entire  universe. 

Proud  of  it!  Hilliard  was  fulsomely  abased. 
Abased, —  yes,  and  simultaneously  glorified.  He  had 
come  to  make  the  city  proud,  ignorantly  proud,  of  the 
man  whose  deeds  had  merited  no  renown.  Here,  at  the 
very  inception  of  his  plans,  a  seventeen-year-old  girl 
was  proud  of  him  as  he  was.  Courage.  Inspiration. 
Resolve. 

He  had  won  her  respect  by  the  promise  of  a  lie ;  and 
in  this  instant  he  vowed  to  deserve,  by  other  and  increas- 
ing lies  if  need  be,  the  prestige  he  was  unalterably  com- 
mitted to  gain,  whereby  the  past  should  be  as  nothing, 
and  the  future  should  be  a  magnificent  citadel  of  recon- 
quered dreams. 

She  was  proud  of  him,  and  she  had  approved  the  lie 
in  behalf  of  Dicky  Morgan's  memory.  Unwittingly,  she 
had  sanctioned  the  very  purpose  of  his  coming,  and  the 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  87 

method  of  his  approach.  She  had  confirmed  his  own 
intentions,  and  given  him  the  will  to  advance.  He  was 
to  act  as  the  staunch  defender  of  her  playmate  perished, 
and  to  make  of  himself  a  new  and  a  better  man,  worthy 
of  the  eulogies  which,  as  trustee,  he  now  accepted  for  the 
unworthy  Morgan.  He  consecrated  himself  to  this  end. 
Told  himself  fiercely  that  he  would  succeed.  And  she 
was  proud  of  him  I     It  was  another  omen. 


vn 


IT  was  eleven  o'clock  to  the  minute  when  Hilliard,  not 
quite  so  blithe  as  a  wedding  guest,  and  j^et  not 
altogether  as  doleful  as  a  mourner,  waved  his  hand  to  a 
slender  girl  who  stood  on  the  veranda  of  a  house  diag- 
onally across  the  street,  and  went  slowly  up  the  Durants' 
brick  walk.  He  had  anticipated  the  effect  of  this  pil- 
grimage upon  his  nerves,  he  had  discounted  it ;  and 
Angela's  advice  had  given  him  an  artificial  stimulus  for 
the  moment ;  nevertheless,  as  the  front  door  opened  to 
him,  and  he  saw,  over  the  head  of  a  smirking  maid- 
servant, a  hallway  and  a  vestibule  unchanged,  his 
breath  came  a  little  faster  than  usual,  and  his  cheeks 
went  a  little  darker.  It  was,  so  to  speak,  a  return  to  a 
shrine,  and  a  normal  man  might  easily  be  pardoned  for 
a  little  sentiment  on  the  side,  no  matter  how  often  he 
had  changed  his  religion  during  the  meantime. 

The  maid,  having  deposited  him  in  the  living  room, 
disappeared  in  a  quick  flurry  of  skirts ;  Hilliard,  stand- 
ing at  the  end  of  the  long,  high-roofed  apartment,  found 
himself  surrounded  by  a  thousand  goads  to  remembrance. 
Not  an  item  was  out  of  place ;  not  an  item  was  otherwise 
than  as  he  had  often  recalled  it ;  his  memory  had  been 
photographic.  It  was  a  room  furnished  comfortably 
rather  than  luxuriously ;  it  suggested  good  taste  rather 
than  great  riches ;  but  here  and  there,  concealed  under 
the  delicate  veiling  of  good  taste,  was  a  rug  or  a  vase  or 
a  bit  of  furniture  which  Hilliard  knew,  from  persona] 
knowledge,  to  be  comparatively  priceless.     The  Durants 

88 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  89 

were  the  sort  of  people  whose  ancestors  had  bought  and 
builded  for  posterity;  the  Durants'  heirlooms  reflected 
distinguished  credit  on  the  ancestors. 

At  the  opposite  end  of  the  room,  flanking  the  black- 
marbled  fireplace,  was  a  graceful,  swan-necked  sofa, 
beautifully  carved  and  splendidly  upholstered:  Dr. 
Durant  had  once  remarked  that  Carol  represented  the 
fifth  successive  generation  of  her  family  to  be  courted 
on  it.  And  evening  after  evening,  in  the  ages  that  had 
gone  before,  Hilliard  had  sat  there  and  dreamed  and 
loved ;  and  sometimes  when  Carol  had  slipped  away  from 
him  he  had  sat  there  and  dreamed  and  loved  and 
smoked,  while  she  played  Chopin  and  Rubinstein  and 
Moscowski  to  him.  Old-fashioned  she  had  called  him; 
ultra-conservative,  impossible ;  but  he  had  still  held  out 
for  melody  instead  of  mathematics  in  music,  and  begged 
for  simplicity  in  place  of  de  Bussy,  and  got  it.  And 
the  piano  —  somewhat  battle-scarred  but  withal  a  mas- 
ter instrument  —  was  still  over  in  its  accustomed  place, 
with  the  Military  Polonaise  perched  open  on  the  rack. 

And  then  an  antique  clock  caught  his  attention,  and 
gazing  at  its  queer,  hand-painted  dial,  he  recalled  how 
on  a  certain  New  Year's  Eve  he  and  Carol,  after  the 
Doctor  had  considerately  left  them,  had  watched  its 
tremulous  hands  feeling  toward  midnight,  while  their 
own  clung  together  in  what  they  imagined  was  eternal 
understanding.  Familiar  paintings  hung  upon  the 
walls;  and  Hilliard,  who  in  his  callow  immaturity  had 
looked  upon  them  with  critical  disdain,  found  himself 
strangely  affected  by  the  native  sincerity  of  Cantwell, 
and  Walker,  and  Miss  Scott.  He  had  argued  that  no 
great  works  could  come  out  of  Syracuse,  and  here  he 
was  discovering  that  a  man  who  has  looked  upon  old 


90  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

masters  and  remained  apathetic,  can  readily  grow  im- 
pressionable before  a  canvas  depicting  nothing  more 
significant  than  a  snow-storm  in  Amber,  Onondaga 
County,  New  York.  How  should  it  happen?  Sincerity 
—  that  was  it !  That  was  what  appeared  to  him  in 
this,  and  in  every  other  detail  of  the  home.  Sincerity 
in  the  pictures,  the  furnishings,  the  whole  tone  of  the 
room  and  of  the  house  .  .  .  sincerity  everywhere,  save 
in  the  man  who  stood  there  to  observe  it.  But  even  as 
he  sensed  this  stinging  fact,  his  pupils  narrowed  to  grey 
necks  of  ice ;  for  memory,  by  one  of  those  tricks  against 
which  there  is  no  defence,  told  him  that  he  had  stood  in 
this  same  position,  in  exactly  this  same  spot,  when  two 
years  ago  the  Doctor  had  pronounced  his  sentence,  and 
Carol,  in  terrible  silence,  had  then  and  there  confirmed 
it.  His  imagination  conjured  up  that  scene  again;  his 
blood  chilled ;  he  could  fancy  that  Carol  and  the  Doctor 
were  actually  before  him,  and  that  he  was  staring  at 
them  in  the  flesh,  and  feeling  the  lash  of  the  Doctor's 
quiet  peroration.  .  .  . 

To  break  the  spell,  he  went  ahead  a  step  or  two,  and 
paused  at  the  massive  table  where  always  a  few  books 
were  ready  for  immediate  diversion.  Not  parlour- 
books,  Roycroft  and  others  for  display,  but  books  to 
be  picked  up  and  enjoyed  in  random  minutes — "The 
Cambridge  Apostles,"  and  Boswell's  "  Johnson,"  and 
"  The  Cruise  of  the  Cachalot,''  and  "  Tristram  Shandy," 
and  "Mr.  Dooley  "  and  "Roughing  It"  and  "The 
Ordeal  of  Richard  Feverel  "  and  "  Plays,  Pleasant  and 
Unpleasant  "  and  "  Whispers  About  Women  "  and  other 
volumes  by  Stephen  Leacock  and  Henry  Harland  and 
Alfred  Noyes  and  Gilbert  Chesterton  and  John  Mase- 
field  and  Robert  Grant  —  such  a  collection  as  no  f am- 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  91 

ilj  but  the  Doctor's,  or  one  with  equal  breadth  of  experi- 
ence and  appreciation,  could  possibly  put  on  the  living- 
room  table  except  as  the  result  of  chance,  or  a  sale  of 
remainders. 

At  the  threshold,  then,  there  was  a  faint  rustle  of 
fabric,  and  Hilliard  turned.  Carol!  His  hands  went 
out  mechanically,  and  hers  to  him ;  and  Hilliard,  tasting 
the  acid  of  his  sombre  mood,  smiled  benignly. 

"  I  mustn't  keep  you  waiting,"  he  said,  dropping  her 
hands.  "  I've  brought  you  the  letter  I  spoke  about." 
He  gave  it  to  her,  and  coughed  his  embarrassment. 
"  I'm  positive  it's  for  you.  And  I'm  sure  you  don't 
want  anything  to  prevent  you  from  reading  it  at  once, 
so  if  you'd  rather  prefer  to  have  me  come  back  later  for 
the  talk  you  wanted  — " 

He  was  already  moving  toward  the  doorway ;  she  re- 
strained him  gently,  although  her  eyes  couldn't  be 
dragged  from  the  folded  paper  he  had  given  her. 

"  No,"  she  said,  "  please  don't  go.  I  particularly 
want  you  to  meet  my  father,  Mr.  Hilliard.  He's 
anxious  to  see  you,  too.  Won't  you  wait  while  I  call 
him?" 

He  inclined  his  head ;  followed  her  with  his  eyes  to  the 
hallway,  strained  his  hearing,  and  knew  that  she  had 
opened  the  letter  as  soon  as  she  was  out  of  his  sight. 
His  lips  twitched  cynically  —  and  then,  as  he  remem- 
bered Angela's  injunction,  straightened.  After  all,  this 
much  was  pure  charity.  Down  the  hallway,  there  was 
the  reverberation  of  a  closing  door,  and  silence. 

It  was  perhaps  five  minutes  before  that  door  was 
reopened,  and  during  the  interval,  Hilliard  had  an 
opportunity  to  wonder  if  the  Doctor  had  revised  his 
office  hours;  otherwise,  he  should  now  be  down  in  the 


^  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

Physicians'  Building,  receiving  patients.  It  occurred 
spontaneously  to  Hilliard  that  both  Carol  and  her 
father  were  conceivably  harassed  by  contrition,  but  as 
he  estimated  the  extent  to  which  their  sorrow  might 
go  .  .  .  judging  by  Carol's  distress  of  last  night,  and 
the  potential  truancy  of  the  Doctor  today  —  he  was 
possessed  of  gripping  emotions.  Had  they  cared  so 
deeply  for  him  then?  Angela  and  Carol  had  said  so; 
but  he  had  doubted  what  he  most  wanted  to  believe. 
Was  this  additional  proof?  Had  the  Doctor  cared  so 
deeply  that  in  order  to  hold  converse  with  Dick  Mor- 
gan's sole  executor,  he  would  interrupt  the  sacred  rou- 
tine of  his  practice?  Too  late!  Too  late  to  care,  too 
late  to  sympathize,  only  the  winter-garment  of  repent- 
ance was  left  for  them!  Hilliard  couldn't  comprehend 
why,  when  he  had  risen  this  morning  so  refreshed  in 
mind  and  body,  he  should  now  be  so  unutterably  wearied 
in  both. 

Carol  returned,  followed  by  a  gentleman  of  sixty; 
and  as  the  Doctor  entered,  the  room  was  suddenly 
permeated  by  an  atmosphere  of  calm,  and  kindly  peace. 
He  was  a  large  man,  large  of  feature,  and  large  of  in- 
stinct; his  forehead  was  that  of  an  intellectualist ;  his 
eyes  were  those  of  a  dreamer;  his  chin  denoted  rugged 
capabilities,  and  the  stubbornness  of  unswerving  ethics. 
The  hand  he  offered  Hilliard  was  the  hand  of  an  artist ; 
a  strong,  and  well-fleshed  hand,  generous,  sensitive, 
soothing  —  it  was  more  than  the  hand  of  a  mere  artist ; 
it  belonged  to  a  fine  physician. 

"  Mr.  Hilliard?  "  His  voice  was  pitched  low,  but  its 
resonance  was  striking.  Thirty  years  ago  the  Doctor 
had  been  a  famous  baritone;  and  there  was  still  one 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  93 

church  in  town  which  dated  its  musical  supremacy  from 
the  choir  he  had  organized  and  directed. 

"  Dr.  Durant !  "  The  two  men  clasped  hands  firmly. 
Hilliard,  experiencing  the  dreaded  sinking  sensation 
which  came  upon  him  as  often  as  he  exposed  himself  to 
yet  another  old  acquaintance,  hardened  as  he  perceived 
no  recognition  in  the  Doctor's  eyes.  The  inevitable  re- 
action left  him  momentarily  weak. 

"  It  was  good  of  you  to  take  this  trouble,  Mr.  Hil- 
liard.    I  appreciate  it." 

Hilliard's  denial  was  highly  courteous ;  it  was  harder 
to  hate  the  Doctor  than  he  had  planned. 

"  No,  Doctor  —  it  would  only  have  been  blamable 
if  I  hadn't." 

The  Doctor,  motioning  him  to  a  seat,  remained  stand- 
ing, near  the  table. 

"  I  insist  that  it's  good  of  you.  .  .  .  You  knew  Dick 
intimately,  I  understand." 

Hilliard  nodded. 

"  Very  intimately,  sir,  considering  the  length  of 
time."  He  perceived  that  Carol  was  holding  the  letter 
lightly  folded  in  her  hands ;  she  intercepted  his  glance, 
and  coloured  proudly. 

"  It  ...  it  did  belong  to  me,"  she  said,  subdued. 
"  And  I  can  never  thank  you  enough  .  .  .  never  ...   !  " 

"  My  daughter,"  said  the  Doctor,  presently,  "  has 
told  me  the  one  great  fact."  He  paused,  then  went  on 
gravely.  "  I  accept  it,  and  it  needs  very  little  comment. 
It's  one  of  those  realities  that  contains  itself,  and  all 
the  attending  circumstances.  What  most  concerns  me 
now  is  to  know  the  lesser  facts.  I  have  some  hope, 
Mr.  Hilliard,  that  you  can  make  the  lesser  seem  the 


94t  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

greater ;  and  the  greater,  the  less.  I  want  you  to  clear 
up  the  one  cloud  that  still  dims  our  knowledge.  I  hope 
you  can  tell  us  something  about  Dick's  reasons  for 
doing  this  tiling — for  going  abroad  at  all,  and  for 
enlisting,  and  for  — " 

Hilliard  winced ;  the  Doctor's  autopsy  on  his  charac- 
ter was  considerably  more  disconcerting  that  Mr.  Cul- 
len's  had  l>een,  and  furthermore,  Hilliard  had  been  pre- 
pared for  another  series  of  eulogies,  and  not  for  psycho- 
analysis. 

"  Dr.  Durant,  I  can't  think  it's  fair  to  put  Dick's 
motives  under  the  microscope  like  that!  Why  not  for- 
get everything  but  the  attending  circumstances  to  the 
one  great  fact.     He  — " 

"  I'm  not  unfair,"  said  the  Doctor  slowly.  "  I've 
never  been  unfair  if  I  could  help  it,  and  certainly  not  to 
this  man  above  all  others.  But  my  greatest  weakness 
has  always  been  a  tendency  to  let  my  heart  run  away 
with  my  judgment.  Here  is  a  case  in  which  a  man  who 
left  us  most  unheroically  comes  back  to  us,  in  spirit  at 
least,  as  a  hero.  The  particular  thing  he  did  is  a  fact. 
I'm  proud  of  him  for  it  —  and  so  far,  for  that,  and  for 
that  only.  But  it  isn't  true  that  by  itself  alone  it  made 
him  a  hero.  And  when  I  said  that  I'm  interested  in  the 
lesser  facts,  I  mean  that  Dick's  reasons  for  going  into 
the  war  at  all  may  be  the  proof  that  he  was  a  hero  — 
and  that  any  physical  bravery  he  may  have  shown  has 
nothing  whatsoever  to  do  with  it.  Do  you  see  what 
I'm  getting  at?" 

"  Not  exactly,  sir !  "     Hilliard  was  red  and  resentful. 

"  Simply  that  there  are  two  kinds  of  heroes,  Mr.  Hil- 
liard. It  isn't  merely  the  excitement  of  the  hour  that 
counts  —  it's  the  quiet  resolution,  formed  beforehand, 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  95 

and  lived  up  to.  It's  the  motive  behind  the  resolution. 
To  be  a  hero  —  which  is  to  say,  not  to  fear  death  — 
can  be  atheism  or  it  can  be  aphasia,  or  it  can  be  what  I 
want  it  to  be  —  conscious  duty,  self-abnegation.  And 
Dick's  motive,  which  may  seem  to  you  a  very  slight  con- 
sideration, means  more  to  me  than  his  physical  bravery, 
which  may  seem  to  you  the  only  item  of  importance.  I 
knew  him  beforehand,  you  see.  So  that  I  should  be  hap- 
pier if  I  heard  that  he  had  gone  with  inspiration,  and 
not  —" 

"  You're  afraid  he  made  a  virtue  out  of  necessity.?  " 
Hilliard's  lip  curled. 

"  That's  exactly  what  I  fear  —  and  I'm  hoping  that 
you  can  persuade  me  to  the  contrary." 

"  And  that  appears  to  you  to  be  more  vital  than 
what  he  did?  " 

"  Bravery  under  fire,"  said  the  Doctor,  "  means  in- 
finitely less  to  me  than  bravery  during  a  man's  struggle 
with  his  soul.  .  .  .  Please  don't  misjudge  us.  We're 
not  trying  to  belittle  anything  Dick  did ;  it's  neither  fit- 
ting nor  possible.  But  what  we  want  to  know  is  where 
the  credit  lies  —  with  Dick,  a  reasoning,  inspired,  deter- 
mined man,  or  with  Dick,  intoxicated  by  danger.  In  the 
latter  case,  his  heroism  would  appeal  to  us  as  a  detached 
incident,  having  no  relation  to  his  earlier  life  or  to  our 
own;  it  would  be  something  to  bring  us  pride  for  that, 
but  for  nothing  else.  In  the  other  case,  the  knowledge 
of  the  why,  in  addition  to  the  what,  would  bring  us  .  .  ." 

"  You'd  argue,  then,  that  even  if  a  man's  deco- 
rated — " 

"  Nine  times  out  of  ten,  if  the  truth  were  known," 
said  the  Doctor,  "  the  decoration  ought  to  have  gone  to 
some  one  else.     Perhaps  a  comrade  —  perhaps  a  wife 


96  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

five  thousand  miles  away.  Unfortunately,  there  aren't 
many  decorations  for  purely  moral  courage.  .  .  .  But 
about  Dick.^" 

"  You  can  be  happy,  then,"  said  Hilliaxd  uneasily, 
"  because  he  went  over,  I  believe,  in  the  firm  conviction 
that  every  man  has  two  countries  —  his  own,  and 
France." 

"  Yes.?  "     The  Doctor  sat  down  abruptly. 

**  As  long  as  j^ou're  interested  in  what  he  did  before 
he  was  wounded  — " 

"  And  afterwards,  Mr.  Hilliard." 

*' —  Rather  than  how  he  was  hurt,  let  me  assure  you 
that  as  far  as  I  know,  from  the  first  day  he  landed,  I 
don't  believe  he  thought  once  about  his  own  misfortunes. 
He  had  them,  I  know.  But  if  you've  got  any  manhood 
in  you,  you  can't  think  of  your  own  troubles,  over  there. 
It's  too  fearful.  The  Carrel-Dakin  solution  heals  all 
sorts  of  wounds,  Doctor  Durant,  all  but  the  worst  wound 
of  all  —  and  that's  what  every  man  who  has  any  human- 
ity and  any  sympathy  about  him  gets  when  he  first  sees 
France.  His  heart  is  torn  clear  out  of  him.  He  can't 
sleep,  he  can  hardly  live  with  his  own  thoughts.  And 
that  quiet  resolution  you  speak  about  —  it's  enough  if  it 
comes  to  a  man  there!  I  don't  care  what  he  had  in  his 
mind  when  he  left  you ;  I  don't  care  what  it  was  that  led 
him  to  go  overseas ;  I  don't  care  what  his  purpose  was 
when  he  sailed;  I  know  that  when  he  stood  on  French 
soil  there  wasn't  an  atom  of  selfishness  or  self-pity  in 
him.  It  wasn't  a  question  of  adventure;  it  wasn't  a 
question  of  drowning  his  sorrows ;  it  was  a  question  of 
his  doing  anything  and  everything  he  could  do  to  help 
out.  He  felt  that  by  throwing  himself  into  the  situation 
with  all  his  might  he  could  make  up,  to  some  extent,  for 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  97 

the  not  very  helpful  life  he'd  had  here.  Let  me  tell  you 
something."  Hilliard  sat  on  the  edge  of  his  chair. 
"  It's  possible  that  you  never  thought  of  Dick  Morgan 
either  as  a  martyr  or  a  fatalist.  Nor  do  7  think  he 
was.  But  when  he  was  brought  to  Neuilly,  there  was 
among  his  papers  a  little  sort  of  field  diary  —  I'm  sorry 
it  was  lost,  so  I  haven't  it  to  show  to  you,  but  I  saw  it 
often  —  and  under  the  date  of  his  first  tour  of  duty  in 
the  front  line  trenches  was  scribbled  this,  quoted  from 
Rousseau :  *  The  dead  carry  to  the  grave,  in  their 
clutched  fingers,  only  that  which  they  have  given  away.' 
And  below  that : '  All  I've  got  is  me !  Tenez  moi  done  — 
et  Vive  la  France!  '  Dr.  Durant,  Dick  went  into  this 
war  in  the  belief  that  the  only  w^ay  to  reclaim  his  life 
was  to  sacrifice  it.     Does  that  answer  your  question.'^  " 

There  was  an  utter  stillness.  It  had  been  a  superb 
fiction,  but  Hilliard,  thinking  obliquely  of  Angela,  was 
only  partly  sentient  of  his  baseness. 

"  Thank  you,"  said  the  Doctor,  and  glanced  at  his 
daughter.     "  Yes." 

"  So  that  you're  satisfied  on  both  scores." 

"  Satisfied  —  it's  a  weak  word,"  said  the  Doctor, 
hushed.  "  He  had  the  making  of  a  splendid  man.  I 
knew  his  parents  and  his  grandparents.  His  career  in 
Syracuse  hadn't  anything  to  do  with  his  heredity,  Mr. 
Hilliard ;  it  was  the  result  of  badly  chosen  environment. 
He  chose  it  himself,  and  he  had  all  a  young  man's  inter- 
est in  temptation.  But  when  those  temptations  were 
removed,  when  he  was  free  to  revert  to  his  family  tra- 
ditions, why,  then  he  could  — " 

*'  You're  taking  it  for  granted,"  demanded  Hilliard, 
^'  that  the  temptations  mere  removed." 

"  Well  —  weren't  they  ?  " 


98  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

Hilliard  failed  to  reply  promptly ;  for  in  meeting  the 
Doctor's  gaze  he  had  undergone  once  more  that  devas- 
tating terror  which  made  him  feel  that  his  whole  soul 
w^as  revealed  in  his  eyes,  and  that  his  subterfuge  was  so 
hopelessly  futile  that  he  must  be  in  delirium,  even  to 
imagine  that  it  could  succeed.  He  wondered  if  he  could 
actually  be  alive.  He  wondered  if  this  situation  could 
exist,  save  in  the  mind  of  a  madman.     And  yet  ,  .  . 

"  No,  Dr.  Durant.  Let  me  tell  you  flatly  from  my 
personal  acquaintance  with  him  —  they  were  not.  But 
he  overcame  them." 

The  Doctor  nodded  repeatedly. 

"  The  more  credit  to  him  —  You're  strengthening 
us  every  moment  in  our  belief  that  Dick  was  the  hero 
we  wanted  to  think.  Because  now  that  we  can  see  that 
it  wasn't  purely  an  instant's  recklessness,  but  — " 

Hilliard  wavered,  and  again  he  wished  that  he  could 
have  sought  the  accomplishment  of  his  desires  by  less 
shameful  means. 

"  It  would  please  me  a  great  deal  more,  though,  Doc- 
tor, if  you  looked  at  him  independently  and  maybe  a 
little  less  academically  —  if  you  didn't  go  so  far  beyond 
the  actual  facts." 

"  How  do  you  mean?  " 

"  Why,"  said  Hilliard,  "  for  one  thing,  in  laying  so 
much  stress  on  his  grandparents.  Dick  was  the  one  who 
went  overseas;  his  grandparents  didn't!  And  his 
grandparents  didn't  go  into  action  on  the  Western 
Front  singing  Stevenson's  '  Requiem  '  at  the  top  of  their 
lungs,  and  knowing  that  it  was  mighty  appropriate, 
and  Dick  did!  " 

"What?"  said  Carol,  straightening.  "What's 
that?  " 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  99 

"  No."  The  Doctor's  negative  was  quiet,  but  de- 
cisive. "  A  man  doesn't  rise  to  heights  of  glory  with- 
out some  reason  for  it,  Mr.  Hilliard.  But  a  man  can 
resist  his  inheritance  for  a  good  many  years,  and  sud- 
denly stop  resisting  and  revert  to  his  family  type.  He 
can  do  it  voluntarily  or  involuntarily.  It's  what  we 
call  atavism.  If  you  had  known  Dick's  father  and 
mother,  and  his  grandfathers  and  grandmothers  as  I 
did,  you'd  concede  the  point  without  a  second's  de- 
bate." He  paused,  and  smiled  sadly.  "  The  pity  of 
it,"  he  said,  "  is  that  in  spite  of  his  having  failed  in 
everything  he  tried  to  do  in  Syracuse,  he  would  have 
made  us  proud  of  him,  sooner  or  later,  if  he  had  stayed 
on  here.     I'm  positive  of  that." 

"  Pity ! "  Hilliard  straightened.  This  was  the 
third  time  in  two  days  that  he  had  caught  the  intimation 
that  he  could  have  come  home  decently  and  humbly,  and 
been  forgiven. 

"  Not  that  I  pity  him  for  what  he  accomplished,  or 
what  it  cost  him,"  warned  the  Doctor.  "  I  don't ;  I  was 
very  fond  of  that  boy,  Mr.  Hilliard,  but  I  wouldn't  for 
the  world  have  had  him  do  anything  else  than  what  he 
did.  No  —  but  I  do  pity  him  because  he  can  never 
know  what  we  think;  because  he  can  never  know  how 
much  we  gladly  forget ;  because  he  can  never  know  why 
we  are  proud  of  him." 

"  Of  course,"  said  Hilliard,  still  rigid,  with  the  con- 
sciousness of  tragedy  that  perhaps  he  had  burned  his 
bridges  needlessly,  "  the  best  way  for  you  to  have 
showed  that  was  to  have  told  him  before  he  left." 

"  It  was  impossible  —  he  hadn't  earned  it." 

Hilliard's  pupils  were  distended. 

"  You  were  rather  harsh  with  him,  Doctor,  as  I  — " 


100  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

"  We  were  just^  Mr.  Hilliard." 

*'  But  if  you  recall  the  gist  of  Portia's  speech  .  .  ." 

"I  do ! "  The  Doctor  regarded  him  pacifically. 
"  And  it's  very  seldom  that  mercy  is  asked  to  temper 
justice  except  after  it's  become  evident  that  justice  is 
actually  going  to  be  just.  Let's  not  deceive  ourselves. 
And  let's  not  put  each  other  in  the  position  either  of  at- 
tacking or  defending  Dick.  It's  not  the  time  for  that 
now.  He's  done  all  that  any  man  can  do,  and  he  was 
a  most  lovable  boy  —  most  lovable." 

Hilliard  nervousl}^  addressed  himself  to  Carol,  who 
had  sat  intently  listening,  without  betraying  any  eager- 
ness to  join  in  the  conversation. 

"  I  hope  you  agree  with  your  father.  Miss  Durant  — 
that  eventually  he'd  have  succeeded  in  Syracuse.'' " 

"  I  never  doubted  it,"  she  said  loyally. 

And  then  the  three  of  them  fell  simultaneously  to 
musing,  and  for  the  space  of  a  minute  or  two  there  was 
quiet;  the  sort  of  quiet  which  comes  just  after  the  bene- 
diction. It  was  the  benediction  which  Carol  had  be- 
stowed upon  a  wretched  sinner  who  sat  there  wonder- 
ing how  he  could  ever  escape  from  the  toils  of  his  own 
cleverness. 

"  How  long  are  you  to  be  in  town,  Mr.  Hilliard.''  " 
inquired  the  Doctor,  irrelevantly. 

"  That  I  can't  say,  sir.  I  had  no  other  errand  than 
this." 

"You've  never  been  here  before?  That  is,  you 
haven't  friends  here?  " 

He  had  expected  this  question,  and  prepared  for  it. 

"  Several  years  ago,"  he  said  casually,  "  I  came  to 
Syracuse  half  a  dozen  times  one  winter  —  on  business. 
I  suppose  I  could  find  my  way  around  even  now,  if  I 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  101 

had  to.     But  comparatively  speaking,  I'm  a  stranger." 

"  You're  a  business  man  then,  Mr.  Hilliard.'^  " 

"  I  told  you  he  was,  dear,"  said  Carol. 

Hilliard  nodded. 

"  Yes,  Dr.  Durant.  That  is, —  I  was.  I  have  no 
business  connections  now.  That's  why  my  plans  are  so 
uncertain." 

Again  a  heavy  silence.  Hilliard  was  cursing  the 
impetuous  haste  which  had  caused  him  to  lie  himself  into 
an  invulnerable  network. 

"  I'm  sorry,"  said  the  Doctor,  rising  abruptly,  "  but 
I've  a  consultation  at  half-past  twelve.  Thank  you 
again,  Mr.  Hilliard,  for  coming  to  us ;  you've  lightened 
my  heart  tremendously.  And  I'm  glad  you  were  a 
friend  of  Dick's ;  this  is  going  to  be  an  era  of  new 
and  strong  friendships,  with  new  ideals  for  cement.  I 
hope  we  shall  see  you  again  before  you  go." 

"  I  hope  so,"  said  Hilliard,  dully.  He  was  whipping 
his  brain  to  find  a  way  out ;  but  how  could  he  explain 
those  manifold,  cruel  falsehoods  which  once  he  had 
thought  to  be  his  retribution? 

The  Doctor  gave  him  a  cordial  smile,  a  parting  pres- 
sure of  the  hand,  and  went  out  directly,  leaving  the  two 
young  people  quite  alone. 

Hilliard,  impelled  to  go  and  equally  constrained  to 
stay,  fidgeted  in  his  vacillation.  He  was  uncomfort- 
able and  unhappy,  yet  curiously  enough  he  had  no  in- 
clination to  depart.  He  felt  chained  to  his  chair; 
weighted  down  with  indiscretion.  He  assured  himself 
that  he  cared  not  the  snap  of  his  finger  for  Carol 
Durant ;  on  the  contrary,  he  was  intolerant  of  her  very 
presence ;  still  he  lingered,  wishing  that  he  hadn't  stulti- 
fied himself.     At  length  she  looked  across  at  him,  and 


102  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

for  the  first  time  since  they  had  met  last  night,  he  de- 
tected a  glimmer  of  personal  interest  in  her  eyes.  It 
was  the  tiniest,  faintest  glimmer  imaginable,  but  it 
roused  him  instantly. 

"  And  you  really  came  all  the  way  up  here  just  to  be 
kind  to  us  ?  "  she  asked,  a  trifle  f orlornlj'. 

"  Just  to  be  kind  to  Dick,"  he  corrected,  with  keen 
diplomacy.  "  Why,  yes  ...  of  course,  if  I'd  known 
how  much  you  cared  —  I  mean,  I  — "  But  the  slip  was 
past  redemption;  and  keen  diplomacy  had  dissolved  in 
tactlessness.  Carol  was  winking  hard;  and  Hilliard 
sprang  to  his  feet.  He  could  never  bear  to  see  a  woman 
cry ;  it  was  immaterial  to  him  who  she  was,  or  what  the 
circumstance ;  he  was  powerfully  affected  —  distraught. 
His  single  aim  was  to  console  her  —  it  was  a  selfish  aim 
designed  primarily  to  relieve  himself. 

"  But  it's  easy  to  see,"  he  said  desperately,  "  why  he 
was  so  anxious  to  have  me  come.  I  ...  I  have  twice 
as  many  reasons  to  envy  him  now,  Miss  Durant.  ...  I 
really  have.  And  .  .  .  and,  unlike* your  father,  I  can 
pity  him,  too,  for  — " 

"  Oh ! "  she  said,  smiling  tremulously  up  at  him 
through  the  misty  veil  of  her  tears.  "  But  y-you  see, 
Mr.  Hilliard  .  .  .  you're  quite  mistaken  ...  I  ...  I 
wasn't  pit^'ing  Dicky ;  I  was  pitying  me !  " 

He  bit  his  lip  sharply.  No  reproach  could  have  gone 
deeper, 

"  That  was  your  letter,  you  said?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,"  she  said.  "  It  c-couldrit  have  been  for 
any  one  else!  Thank  you  so  much  .  .  .  for  bringing 
it  .  .  ." 

He  was  trying  to  analyse  the  emotions  which  stirred 
him.     He  had  told  himself  over  and  over  again  that  his 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  103 

love  for  her  was  numb;  and  yet  here  he  was  .  .  .  un- 
steadily balanced  .  .  .  tormented  by  her  grief  .  .  . 
and  lying  to  her  in  the  next  sentence  —  to  protect  his 
previous  lies,  and  to  give  her  what  comfort  he  could. 

"  I  want  you  to  have  his  war  cross,  Miss  Durant.  .  .  . 
I  think  it  belongs  to  you  more  than  to  any  one  else. 
I  .  .  .'*  He  stopped,  and  stood  irresolute  ;  for  she  had 
broken  down  completely.  He  watched  her,  and  slowly 
the  blood  burned  in  his  cheeks !  He  thought  then  that 
he  would  gladly  have  given  his  life  to  win  a  similar 
cross,  if  he  could  have  known  that  she  would  look  upon  it 
so  tragically.  He  tried  to  order  his  thoughts,  to  select 
his  action  ...  if  he  still  loved  her,  he  was  there  to  con- 
sole her ;  if  not  ...  he  ought  in  all  humanity  to  console 
her  just  the  same,  even  if  it  took  another  of  those  inex- 
cusable deceptions.  For  an  instant  he  was  on  the  point 
of  succumbing  to  a  wild  impulse  to  blurt  out  the  truth, 
and  take  the  consequences  .  .  . 

He  started ;  for  she  had  motioned  to  him  —  motioned 
him  away.  He  hesitated  .  .  .  was  it  love,  or  repent- 
ance, or  only  his  disquiet  to  see  a  woman  cry?  She  mo- 
tioned again,  hysterically  .  .  . 

Hilliard's  brain  snapped;  Syracuse  had  sung  his 
praise  too  late.  The  Doctor  with  his  isms  and  dissec- 
tions was  too  late  —  Carol  herself  was  too  late  with 
tears.  His  jaws  came  together;  he  glanced  at  her  once 
more,  and  then,  in  obedience  to  her  gesture,  he  turned, 
and  tiptoed  quietly  from  the  room.  The  front  door 
closed  quietly  behind  him.  The  danger  of  succumbing 
was  over,  and,  he  believed,  permanently  and  yet  .  .  . 

"  Even  Stephen !  "  he  whispered  as  he  went  down  the 
steps. 

But  on  the  sidewalk,  when  he  realized  that  he  should 


104  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

never  have  another  opportunity  to  break  the  thread  of 
his  chicanery,  he  had  few  of  the  musings  of  a  hero.  In- 
stead, he  knew  the  first  faint  debility  of  a  timid  crim- 
inal. He  was  committed  definitely  to  a  living  death. 
Confession  now  was  impossible ;  his  watchfulness  must  be 
to  avoid  discovery. 

A  passer-by  wondered  idly  what  this  saintly-looking 
person  was  muttering  under  his  breath.  His  face  was 
radiantly  placid,  but  his  shoulders  were  swearing. 


vni 


BRING  a  problem,  a  tremendous,  highly-ramified 
problem,  into  any  man's  life,  and  if  his  powers  of 
concentration  are  strongly  enough  developed,  his  world 
separates  into  two  parts  —  the  problem,  and  a  perfect 
blank.  And  to  Hilliard,  whose  life  had  suddenly  become 
the  apotheosis  of  introspection,  there  was  a  period  of 
twenty-four  hours  during  which  he  scarcely  knew  what 
he  did,  or  what  he  said. 

He  could  vaguely  remember,  afterwards,  certain  un- 
related occurrences,  but  that  was  all.  He  could  re- 
member going  back  to  Angela,  and  saying,  in  effect: 
"  Well,  I  did  it !  "  and  he  had  a  hazy  impression  that  she 
had  thanked  him  with  rather  incoherent  extravagance, 
and  made  him  violently  uncomfortable.  In  the  after- 
noon, he  had  set  out  for  a  solitary  walk,  and  had  re- 
turned at  dusk,  with  a  splitting  headache  and  no  appe- 
tite for  dinner  —  unable  to  state  where  he  had  been,  and 
indifferent  to  Mr.  Cullen's  declaration,  based  on  a 
fragment  or  two  of  Hilliard's  recollection  of  landmarks, 
that  he  must  have  walked  all  of  twenty  miles. 

He  had,  next,  a  dislocated  sort  of  memory  of  an 

evening  on  the  veranda,  with  Mr.  Cullen  doing  most  of 

the  talking,  and  doing  it  cheerfully  and  sticking  with 

great   zeal   to   shop-talk.     Hilliard   had   maintained   a 

steady  willingness  to  suffer  in  silence,  and  had  smiled 

interminably  at  Angela,  who  thawed  visibly  beneath  this 

evidence  of  friendliness. 

He  hadn't  slept,  but  had  passed  the  night  in  a  sensi- 

105 


106  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

tized  form  of  coma,  and  had  reported  for  breakfast  in 
such  palpable  distress  that  Angela  had  mothered  him 
to  her  heart's  content,  and  Mr.  Cullen  had  brilliantly 
diagnosed  his  ailment  as  nerve-fag  from  the  disinte- 
grating nature  of  his  errand,  and,  prescribing  complete 
rest  and  recreation  for  a  day  or  two,  shown  the  utmost 
hospitality,  and  commanded  Angela  to  drive  him  to 
Skancateles  and  cheer  him  up. 

Angela  had  complied;  and  Angela  had  found  that  he 
was  immersed  in  a  Problem,  and  guessed  what  it  was. 
Her  guess  was  fully  as  correct  as  it  had  any  right  to  be 
(she  deduced  that  his  interview  with  Carol  had  com- 
pletely demoralized  him)  and  she  adored  him  for  it.  In 
addition,  she  was  practical;  as  soon  as  she  had  discov- 
ered his  need  of  recuperation,  she  had  taken  him  home, 
and  ordered  him  sternly  to  lie  down  and  close  his  eyes, 
and  not  bother  about  anything. 

He  had  obeyed  inertly,  and  had  been  wakened  by  the 
advent  of  three  pert  young  reporters,  who  mistook  his 
apathy  for  the  diffidence  of  greatness,  and  interviewed 
him  deferentially  for  fifteen  minutes,  after  which  Angela 
had  expelled  them,  and  treated  Hilliard  like  a  small  boy, 
or  an  invalid.  And  he  had  obe^^ed  her  gratefull}^  even 
to  the  extent  of  using  menthol. 

Then,  thoroughly  worn  out,  he  had  slept.  He  had 
closed  his  eyes  when  the  sun  was  hardly  past  its  zenith ; 
he  opened  them  in  the  violet  light  of  late  afternoon. 
His  brain  was  clear,  his  muscles  were  placid ;  the  events 
of  the  past  twenty-four  hours  were  as  evasively  thin  as 
the  plot  of  a  two-dajs'-old  dream. 


IX 


AT  six  o'clock  that  afternoon  Hilliard,  freshly 
bathed  and  dressed,  strolled  lazily  down  to  the 
garden  behind  the  Cullen  house  in  search  of  mild  diver- 
sion. It  wasn't  a  large  garden,  but  what  there  was 
of  it  had  charm  and  background,  as  well  as  seclusion. 
There  was  a  rectangle  of  asters  and  foxglove  and  Can- 
terbury bells,  and  within  it,  a  square  of  close-cropped 
lawn  bordered  by  mignonettes,  and  in  the  centre  of 
that,  a  slender  marble  fountain  whose  thin  little  jet 
seemed  always  to  be  struggling  to  rise  just  another  inch 
higher  than  it  possibly  could.  And  there  beside  the 
fountain,  on  the  grass,  stood  Angela,  a  vision  of  sum- 
mer daintiness  in  a  little  rose-coloured  frock  of  gingham, 
with  white  little  frills  of  fascination  at  the  neck  and 
sleeves.  Her  own  colour,  too,  was  roseate,  and,  as  she 
waved  her  hand  to  Hilliard,  her  eyes  were  sparkling. 

"  Hello  !  "  she  said.     "  How's  the  invalid?  " 

"  Ashamed,"  he  responded,  truthfully  enough. 
"  There  isn't  an  apology  half  big  enough  to  — " 

"  Please  don't !  "  she  interrupted. 

"  But  think  of  it !  "  he  protested  vigorously.  "  First 
I  saddle  myself  on  you  in  this  outrageous  fashion,  and 
then  I—" 

"  Hush !  "  said  Angela,  with  mock  sternness.  "  Or 
I'll  be  ashamed  of  you,  .  .  .  Feeling  better.'*  " 

"  Yes,  but  — " 

"  Careful !  "  Her  tone  changed  subtly.  "  You  don't 
seem  to  realize  that  we  owe  you  something,  too,  Mr.  Hil- 

107 


108  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

Hard.  Men  don't  know  how  to  take  care  of  themselves 
—  that's  what  women  are  for!  You  just  stop  fussing, 
and  behave  yourself." 

"  You're  kinder  to  me  than  I  deserve,"  said  Hilliard, 
and  meant  it  literally. 

She  blushed  at  that,  and  bent  down  to  pluck  a  purple 
aster  for  him. 

"  Perhaps  that's  because  we  like  you  so  much,"  she 
said,  and  gave  him  the  aster.     "  Shall  I  fix  it  for  you?  " 

"  Please  do !  "  He  watched  her  closely,  and  took 
an  esthetic  pleasure  in  the  sight.  Her  fingers  bungled 
at  the  lapel,  and  she  blushed  again;  her  skin  was  ex- 
quisitely fair  and  translucent;  Hilliard  marvelled  at  it. 
"  There !  "  She  gave  the  flower  a  final  touch.  "  Now 
you're  all  dressed  up !  "  She  dusted  her  fingers  prettily, 
and  smiled  up  at  him. 

Hilliard  looked  down  at  her,  and  smiled  in  response. 
He  was  thinking  what  a  child  she  was  —  how  the  irre- 
pressible hoyden  of  two  years  ago  was  merely  veneered 
by  the  first  coat  of  higher  education,  which  is  general 
deportment.  He  was  thinking  that  by  all  the  prece- 
dents, she  should  have  had  a  kiss  in  barter  for  the  bou- 
tonniere;  she  had  well  earned  it;  and  the  reward  would 
have  been  as  natural  as  her  coquetry. 

"  Thank  you,  my  dear,"  said  Hilliard,  with  an  infini- 
tesimal sigh  which  was  partly  for  the  veneering,  and 
partly  because  she  had  recovered  so  swiftly  from  her 
sorrowing  for  the  man  who  stood  beside  her.  Still,  he 
argued,  grief  is  short-lived  in  the  best  of  us,  and  she  had 
outgrown  Morgan  in  his  absence.  But  her  grief  had 
been  so  sweet  to  him ! 

She  was  beheading  a  stray  nasturtium  as  she  stood 
half  turned  from  him,  her  head  drooping. 


THfc.  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  109 

"  I  don't  like  you  at  all  —  now,"  she  declared,  with- 
out convincing  emphasis.  "  You  said  that  —  and  you 
looked  —  just  as  though  I'm  a  little  girl!  And  I'm 
sure  I've  acted  pretty  differently  to  you.     Haven't  I.^^  '* 

"  Perhaps  that's  the  way  I  intended  to  look,"  he  said. 
"  At  any  rate,  it  was  meant  for  a  compliment." 

"  I  wish  I  thought  so,"  she  protested,  pouting  ador- 
ably. 

Hilliard,  who  was  completely  captivated  by  her 
luscious  youthfulness,  spoke  in  the  same  tone  he  had  used 
before. 

"  You'll  have  to  take  my  solemn  oath  for  it.  .  .  . 
And  only  see  how  you've  spoiled  that  nasturtium !  " 

Her  lips  curved  reluctantly  at  first,  and  then  in  swift 
surrender  to  him ;  her  delicious  smile  was  part  shy  con- 
sciousness, and  part  the  spontaneity  of  eager  friend- 
ship ;  she  glanced  at  him  out  of  the  corner  of  one  eye, 
an  ingenue  coquette,  and  he  was  satisfied,  then,  that  some 
of  her  sorrow  for  Morgan  had  dissolved,  because  it  left 
a  space  in  her  sentiments  which  Hilliard  himself  could 
fill.  Also,  she  had  never  coquetted  with  Morgan ;  she 
hadn't  known  how. 

"  I'll  take  your  word  for  it,  then,"  she  said,  and  gave 
him  a  tantalizing  glimpse  of  her  piquant  features. 
"  And  I  suppose  you  think  you're  a  regular  patriarch !  " 
This  was  provocative  —  slightly  impertinent.  Hilliard 
was  inwardly  convulsed. 

"  Old  enough  to  be  respected,  anyway,"  he  said. 
There  was  a  bantering  gravity  in  his  voice,  but  also  a 
trace  of  something  serious.  Her  rejoinder  was  in  pre- 
cisely the  same  spirit. 

"  Oh,  but  I  never  respect  people  —  never  in  the  least." 

"No.?     Not  even  ministers,  or  movie-actors,  or  mil- 


110  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

lionaires?"  The  relief  from  the  strain  of  yesterday 
was  incalculable;  nothing  could  have  been  more  revivi- 
fying than  this  harmless  conflict  of  words ;  he  could  feel 
his  whole  soul  relaxing  under  the  influence  of  it. 

"  Not  a  respect !  "  she  said,  with  an  odd  little  combi- 
nation of  defiance  and  humour.  "  Men  are  just  babies. 
That's  all  they  are;  just  babies.  I  have  to  laugh  at 
'em." 

"  Indeed !  So  you're  laughing  at  me,  are  you,  too  ? 
I'll  admit  I  gave  you  something  of  an  opportunity." 

"  Not  yet  —  but  I  will  sometime,  of  course.  And  I 
wish  you  wouldn't  make  fun  of  my  trying  to  take  care  of 
you  —  that's  different.     You  needed  it." 

Hilliard  burst  out  laughing,  and  laughed  immoder- 
ately. 

''  If  eventually,  why  not  now  ?  "  he  inquired,  still  con- 
vulsed. To  his  astonishment  there  were  sudden  depths 
in  those  big  delft-blue  eyes  of  hers :  and  her  answer  was 
made  without  the  least  remaining  vestige  of  humour. 

"  Well,"  she  said,  "  I  can't  put  it  in  words  exactly, 
but  so  far,  you  are  different.  I  haven't  laughed  at  you 
yet  because  the  one  thing  in  the  world  I  don*t  laugh  at  is 
experience.  I  ...  I  cant!  And  you  look  as  though 
you'd  had  just  heaps  and  heaps.  So,  I  won't  laugh  at 
you  until  I've  found  you  out.  And  it  won't  be  when 
you're  tired,  or  sick,  or  something,  either." 

Hilliard  shook  his  head. 

"  Don't  you  know  any  one  else  who's  had  what  you 
call  experience?  " 

Angela  shook  her  head.  "  Not  like  yours.  I  feel 
all  the  time  as  though  you'd  lived  so  much  more  than 
anybody  else  I've  ever  met.  It  isn't  anything  you  do 
or  anything  you  say  —  it's  just  there.     Perhaps  it's  the 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  111 

war.  Or  .  .  .  you've  travelled  a  lot,  haven't  you?  I 
know  you  have.  That  may  be  it;  that's  what  counts 
most." 

"  Yes,"  he  said  indifferently,  "  I've  chased  rainbows 
pretty  much  all  over  the  world.  It's  been  a  busy  life, 
Angela,  but  looking  back  on  it  I  don't  believe  it's  been 
half  as  happy  as  yours." 

"  As  mine!  "  she  gasped,  and  the  shock  had  driven 
every  atom  of  self-consciousness  out  of  her.  "  Why, 
whatever  do  you  mean?  " 

"  Just  that,"  said  Hilliard.     "  What  else?  " 

"  And  you've  been  everywhere  and  seen  everything  — 
and  you  expect  to  say  that  and  have  me  believe  it?  " 

"  No  —  but  that  doesn't  make  it  any  less  true.  You 
don't  get  happiness  by  doing  what  you  want  to ;  you 
get  it  by  doing  what  you  particularly  donH  want  to. 
That's  preachy,  of  course,  but  it  happens  to  be  true. 
Honestly.     Cross  my  heart." 

"  You  actually  think  I'm  happy  here,  do  you?  " 

"  Why,  aren't  you  ? "  he  asked,  genuinely  taken 
aback. 

In  her  confusion,  she  had  moved  very  near  to  him; 
her  flushed  little  face,  lifted  to  his,  was  almost  expres- 
sionless with  incredulity.  Her  breath  was  quickened, 
and  the  colour  in  her  cheeks  was  indescribably  lovely. 
Hilliard  found  himself  regarding  her  not  as  an  old  and 
tested  playmate,  but  as  a  new  and,  as  yet,  an  un- 
fathomed  friend. 

"  You  think  I  could  be  happy  vegetating  in  this  — 
this  miserable  old  dump?  " 

"  What !  "  said  Hilliard.     «  You  don't  like  it?  " 

"  This?  "  Angela's  voice  was  girlishly  shrill  with 
repugnance.     "  Why,  I  loathe  it !     Why  Mr.  Hilliard, 


112  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

I've  never  been  anywhere!  Never  anywhere  at  all! 
Just  Syracuse  —  cloudy  and  sooty  and  cold  and  rainy 
and  slushy  and  humid  —  and  you've  been  all  over  the 
whole  wide  world  —  and  then  you  compare  — "  Her 
voice  broke.  "  You  compare  your  life  with  this  !  I  — ■ 
Vm  living  in  a  horrid  old  prison ;  you  re  free!  '* 

He  had  a  strong  intuition  that  Angela  had  been 
reading  a  book ;  but  he  forbore  to  ask  her. 

"  I  should  think  you'd  be  very  contented  here,"  he 
began  condolingly. 

"  Wliat  with?  "  she  flared  and  Hilliard  was  reminded 
of  nothing  so  much  as  a  fluffy  kitten  grown  belligerent. 

"  Why,  my  dear  child,  your  father  gives  you  every- 
thing you  want,  and  — " 

"  That  shows  how  little  you  know  about  it ! "  she 
flamed.  "  I  don't  want  to  hang  around  here  all  my 
life !  there's  nothing  here  he  can  give  me !  I  want  to 
go  abroad  —  everywhere.  I  want  some  experiences,  I 
want  to  travel,  too.  London,  and  Paris,  and  Russia, 
and  Japan,  and  Honolulu,  and  Bermuda,  and  India,  and 
Egypt,  and  ~" 

"  But  the  war,  my  dear  —  the  war !  "  She  drew 
herself  up  with  immense  dignity. 

"Well,  I  could  be  a  nurse  or  something,  couldn't  I.'^ 
Everybody  says  I've  got  magnetic  hands !  " 

"  Haven't  you  friends  enough  to  keep  you  amused.''  " 
he  asked,  avoiding  tlie  complication  of  an  answer. 

"  Friends  ?     Oh,  in  a  way  — " 

"  No  nice  young  men  to  play  with  —  and  laugh 
at.?" 

"  No,"  she  denied.  "  Not  many.  And  the  only  one 
I  ever  really  cared  much  of  anj'thing  about  —  until  a 
little  while  ago  — »was  —  was  Dick  Morgan." 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  113 

Hilliard  began  to  feel  a  tightening  in  his  throat. 

*'  But  he  was  ever  so  much  older  than  you  are,  wasn't 
he?" 

"  Oh,  yes,"  she  said.  "  He  was  almost  middle-aged." 
Hilliard  started.  "  But  —  he  understood.  That's  all 
—  he  just  understood." 

"  Understood  what,  Angela  ?  " 

She  was  plucking  intently  at  the  frills  of  one  of 
her  sleeves. 

*'  My  wanting  to  go  to  places,  and  see  things.  And 
have  —  sort  of  adventures.  And  — "  She  glanced  up 
suddenly,  and  her  pupils  swelled.  "Why  —  why,  you 
understand,  too  —  doTi't  you?"  she  said  breathlessly. 

Hilliard's  expression  was  unaltered. 

"  How  do  you  know  that  ?  " 

"  By  the  way  you're  looking  at  me  — "  In  absolute 
unconsciousness  of  self,  she  had  seized  a  lapel  of  his 
coat  in  either  hand ;  she  was  standing  almost  on  tiptoe 
in  her  endeavour  to  read  his  thoughts.  She  was  a 
lovely,  restless,  highly  excited  child,  and  Hilliard  was 
not  at  all  immune  to  beauty.  "  What  have  you  done?  " 
she  demanded  imperatively,  wide-eyed.  "  How  did  you 
do  it?  How  did  you  get  away  from  things?  You 
have  done  it  —  I  know  you  have  —  you've  got  the  same 
sort  of  far-off  look  in  your  eyes  that  Dicky  had  when 
he  used  to  tell  me  stories !  "  Her  eyes  were  liquid  won- 
der. "  That's  why  I  liked  him  so  much.  And  you  re- 
mind me  of  him  a  lot.     Tell  me !  " 

"  Do  I?  "  Hilliard  was  quaking  internally ;  he  strug- 
gled to  break  the  continuity  of  her  imagination.  "  Do 
you  know  what  you  remind  me  of?  " 

Her  vanity  refused  to  yield  to  the  suggestion,  and 
Hilliard  trembled  at  the  thought  of  what  a  ghastly 


114  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

anticlimax    might    result    from    any    recognition    now. 

"  On  the  outside,  you're  not  like  him  at  all,"  she  said, 
"  but  you  give  me  an  awfully  creepy  feeling  when  you 
look  at  me  like  that.  It's  like  —  transmigration  of 
souls,  you  know.  As  though  ...  as  though  Dicky 
sent  me  a  message  through  your  eyes  ...  to  go  with 
the  one  he  sent  by  your  hands.     It's  awfully  creepy !  " 

HiUiard  tried  to  laugh. 

*'  I  don't  believe  in  supernatural  things  ;  do  you  ?  " 

She  released  him,  but  lost  none  of  her  attentiveness. 

*'  I  never  did  before,"  she  said. 

Hilliard  found  himself  unable  to  tear  his  eyes  from 
her :  the  danger  fascinated  him.  All  his  early  confidence 
had  gone  unstable,  and  he  was  shivering  at  the  prospect 
of  detection.  Nevertheless,  he  knew  that  this  was  no 
time  to  compromise;  he  must  brazen  it  out. 

"  You  don't  mean  to  saj  that  you  do  now?  " 

"  But  it's  all  so  queer,"  she  said,  perplexed.  "  You're 
so  unlike  him,  and  yet.  ...  I  wish  I  could  describe  it, 
Mr.  Hilliard.  If  I'd  had  my  back  turned  when  you 
spoke  to  me,  I  ...  I  think  I'd  have  called  you  '  Dick  ' 
without  ever  thinking  about  it.  I  suppose  I  seem  aw- 
fully silly  to  you." 

"  No."  And  in  fact,  he  was  afraid  of  her  because 
she  was  so  exactly  the  opposite.  "  You're  only  very 
sensitive,  Angela."  He  saw  the  chance  to  capitalize 
her  doubt,  and  seized  it  avidlj- .  "  Perhaps  it's  because 
your  friend  and  I  had  the  same  sort  of  penchant  for  ad- 
ventures." 

She  shook  her  head.  "  No,  that  can't  be  it  — •  loads 
of  people  have  that.  Why,  even  Dad  does  —  and  still 
he  can't  see  why  I  should." 

"  Somehow  I  hadn't  thought  of  him  as  an  adven- 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  115 

turer,"  said  Hilliard  lightly.  He  was  as  shaken  as  a 
man  who  has  been  snatched  back  from  vertigo  on  the 
edge  of  a  precipice. 

"  Oh,  but  he  is  I  He's  too  busy  to  go  and  do  it,  but 
right  here  in  town  he  does  some  of  the  funniest 
things  — " 

"For  instance?"     Hilliard  dared  to  breathe  affain. 

"  Why,"  said  Angela,  "  he  can't  very  well  go  off 
buccaneering,  you  know,  but  any  business  that's  sort 
of  romantic,  he  just  simply  can't  keep  his  hands  off  of ! 
He's  put  money  in  oil  wells  and  submarines  and  he's 
backed  a  plan  to  raise  a  ship  that  was  sunk  early  in  the 
war,  and  he  — " 

"  Your  father,"  said  Hilliard,  smiling  in  limp  re- 
lief, "  must  be  a  very  rich  man !  " 

"  Oh,  he  is !  "  said  Angela  carelessly.  "  And  if  he 
could  go  and  superintend  those  things  liimself,  he'd 
be  perfectly  crazy  about  it.  He's  a  bigger  baby  than 
anybody  else  I  know !     But  when  /  say  a  word  — " 

"  He  doesn't  respond?  " 

"  No!  He  says  I'm  silly !  He  says  it's  spring  fever, 
or  something.  And  he's  actually  scouting  for  things 
to  do  all  the  time  himself !  He's  thinking  about  putting 
some  money  in  a  gold  mine  this  minute.  And  going  out 
to  stay  in  Arizona  two  or  three  months  and  watch 
it!  He  says  it's  business,  but  /  know  it's  Arizona. 
He—" 

"He  is,  is  he!"  Hilliard  frowned  slightly.  "If 
he's  interested  in  mining,  I  could  give  him  some  good 
advice  myself." 

She  was  instantly  alert. 

"Why,  do  you  own  a  gold  mine?"  Her  tone  was 
almost  reverential. 


116  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

"  No,  but  I  own  part  of  a  copper  mine." 

"  Oh,  I  wish  I  could  see  it !  "  she  said,  with  exquisite 
envj.     "  I  wish  I  could.     Where  is  it?  " 

"  Montana.     And  perhaps  you  can,  sometime." 

"  Honestly?  "  The  veneering  over  her  eager  youth- 
fulness  was  very  thin. 

"  I'd  love  to  have  you.  It's  in  a  beautiful  country, 
too." 

"Could  .   .  .  could  Dad  be  in  it,  too?" 

"  Why,"  said  Hilliard,  "  I'm  not  trying  to  sell  any- 
thing to  — " 

"  Oh,  I  know,  but  he's  crazy  about  those  things ! " 
She  clasped  her  hands  in  fervent  and  premature  excite- 
ment. "  And  so  am  I.  Now  you  just  listen!  It  isn't 
as  though  he  werenH  interested  in  — " 

"  But,  my  dear  child !  "  he  protested,  humorously. 
"  Your  father  wouldn't  bother  his  head  about  my 
schemes,  even  if  I'd  let  him.     He  — " 

"But  he  wotdd!  That's  just  where  you're  wrong! 
Dad'Il  bite  at  anything !  "  She  was  belatedly  conscious 
of  the  slip,  and  blushed  furiously.  "  I  didn't  mean 
that  —  you  know." 

"  Of  course,"  said  Hilliard. 

"I  mean,  he's  just  like  a  boy  —  about  schemes  and 
things.  Adventures.  And  3^ou'll  talk  to  him,  won't 
you?     Please?     To  please  me?" 

"  Why,"  said  Hilliard,  "  I  don't  exactly  know  what 
you  want  me  to  talk  to  him  about,  but  — " 

"  Why,  about  your  mine,  and  mining  in  general, 
and  .  .  .  don't  you  see?  Don't  you  see  where  /  come 
in?  Don't  you  see  what  a  lot  you  could  do  for  me? 
Aren't  you  willing  to  do  even  that  much?  Couldn't  we 
aU  go  out  there  sometime  —  couldn't  we?  " 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  117 

"  Well  — "  Hilliard  was  slightly  off  his  balance  at 
the  unexpected  aid  flung  towards  him. 

"  Hark ! "  she  said,  with  her  head  to  one  side  in  a 
singularly  birdlike  attitude.  "  There's  the  Packard 
now  !     There's  Dad !     Come  on  !  " 

Impetuously,  she  caught  his  hand,  but  her  intended 
flight  was  cut  short  when  Hilliard  remained  stockstill. 
She  glanced  back  inquiringly ;  Hilliard  smiled  down  at 
her.  He  continued  to  hold  her  hand;  she  stared  at  it, 
and  then  at  Hilliard  in  some  bewilderment.  And  pres- 
ently he  lifted  it  to  his  lips ;  and  Angela,  equally 
alarmed  and  transported,  blushed  still  more  rosily,  and 
backed  away. 

"  I  didn't  give  it  to  you  for  that,"  she  said,  with 
ingenuous  primness. 

"  I  know  you  didn't,"  he  conceded.  "  But  — " 
Here  her  wide  and  expressive  eyes  met  his  own,  and  clung 
to  them.  "  But  let  me  give  you  now  the  one  —  he 
sent  you,"  said  Hilliard  soberly.  And  kissed  her  hand 
again,  as  though  it  had  been  a  queen's. 

As  they  started  up  the  incline  towards  the  house, 
he  told  himself  that  he  should  have  to  be  very  cautious 
with  Angela  after  this.  He  knew,  from  the  way  she 
had  looked  at  him,  that  Continental  courtesies  had 
heretofore  been   lacking   from  her  young  experience. 


ORDINARILY,  Mr.  Cullen  was  satisfied  to  bring  a 
single  evening  paper  home  with  him,  and  when  he 
laid  it  on  the  hall  table,  it  was  generally  creased  down 
the  financial  page;  but  tonight,  he  brought  two,  and 
each  of  them  had  wrinkles  across  the  market  reports 
and  were  folded  so  as  to  feature  the  departments  de- 
voted to  local  news.  The  Journal  had  beaten  the 
Herald  by  two  sticks  and  a  subhead,  but  the  Herald 
had  honoured  Dicky  Morgan  with  a  kindly  editorial  and 
both  papers  had  stated  explicitly  where  Hilliard  was 
making  his  headquarters.  Mr.  Cullen  had  a  broad- 
gauge  disposition,  and  Mr.  Cullen  had  prestige  which 
nothing  short  of  a  cataclysm  could  disturb,  but  Mr. 
Cullen  was  so  nearly  one  hundred  percent  normal  that 
if  The  Average  Man  ever  really  existed,  outside  of 
political  arguments  and  tables  of  statistics,  Mr.  Cullen 
might  almost  have  passed  for  a  specimen  of  this  in- 
teresting genus.  Therefore,  it  stands  to  reason  that 
Mr.  Cullen  wasn't  wholly  displeased,  even  under  such 
melancholy  auspices,  to  be  included  in  the  spotlight 
of  publicity.  Indeed,  he  would  have  been  seriously 
offended  if  he  hadn't  been  mentioned  at  least  once  in 
each  paper ;  and  this  is  no  more  a  reflection  upon  his 
vanity  than  the  fact  that  he  cherished  a  lively  anticipa- 
tion for  what  the  Post-Standard  was  going  to  say  about 
the  case  tomorrow  morning.  It  was  merely  a  matter 
of  local  prerogative:  and  he  was  entitled  to  it.  It 
was  a  mark  of  his  standing  in  the  community  —  His 

Name  in  Print. 

118 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  119 

Nevertheless,  there  was  a  fly  in  the  ointment  —  not 
verj  much  of  a  fly,  to  be  sure,  but  still  appreciable; 
and  after  all,  it  isn't  the  size  of  the  invader  that  counts. 
Mr.  CuUen  was  generous ;  Mr.  Cullen  was  hospitable ; 
but  Mr.  Cullen  was  also  the  tiniest  bit  of  a  snob  — 
not  a  carping,  contemptuous,  supercilious  snob,  but  a 
healthy,  hearty,  open-spirited  snob,  frank  in  his  liking 
for  the  things  he  liked, —  and  one  of  them  was  to  he 
somebody,  and  have  the  neighbours  know  it.  He  liked 
to  fraternize  with  important  men;  he  liked  to  see  his 
name  in  the  paper  now  and  then ;  he  liked  to  feel  superior 
—  just  one  harmless  little  degree  more  consequential  — 
than  his  next-door  neighbour.  And  the  neighbour,  of 
course,  had  to  share  this  conviction,  or  there  wasn't 
any  purpose  in  it. 

And  Mr.  Cullen,  with  all  this  ingenuous  weakness  for 
prominence,  hadn't  known  until  the  evening  papers  told 
him  so,  hadn't  even  suspected  (although  now  he  was 
trying  busily  to  persuade  himself  that  he  had  sus- 
pected it  all  along,  from  one  thing  and  another)  that  his 
guest  was  a  mining  engineer  of  international  reputa- 
tion, and  independently  wealthy  to  boot.  It  was  enough 
to  discomfit  any  host!  It  was  enough  to  annoy  any 
man,  whether  average  or  not,  who  prided  himself  (and 
most  of  us  do)  that  he  had  unusual  discernment,  and 
was  a  Good  Judge  of  Human  Nature.  That  is  —  it 
was  enough  to  irritate  any  trustworthy  individual  who 
didn't  realize  that  the  avid  young  reporters  had  simply 
taken  Hilliard's  word  for  it,  and  scurried  back  to  their 
offices  to  turn  out  readable  copy  as  fast  as  they  con- 
veniently could. 

Curiosity  gnawed  at  him,  for  he  was  a  man  who 
liked  to  get  his  data  at  first  hand,  and  not  to  have  to 


no  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

take  it  in  the  form  of  stew,  after  he  had  missed  the 
original  roast;  he  liked  the  authority  of  confidential 
information.  And  so,  when  he  met  the  pair  of  young 
people  at  the  head  of  the  garden,  he  began  to  fire  away 
pointblank  at  Hilliard;  and  this  was  barely  after  the 
greetings,  and  a  question  as  to  the  state  of  Milliard's 
health,  and  before  Angela  had  found  an  opportunity  to 
get  a  word  in  edgewise.  It  wasn't  altogether  an  op- 
portune moment,  but  the  Average  Man  never  stands 
on  ceremony. 

"  Understand  you're  a  mining  man,  Mr.  Hilliard," 
he  said,  pleasantly. 

"  I  used  to  be,"  said  Hilliard,  with  a  glance  for 
Angela.  "  I've  retired.  I  thought  I  told  you  so  the 
first  night  I  was  here." 

"  Oh,  3'es  —  you  did  say  something  about  it,  but  — " 
Mr.  Cullen  laughed  with  the  fulness  of  one  who  has 
unearthed  secrets.  "  It  took  some  of  our  bright  young 
newspaper  crowd  to  ferret  out  the  facts.  You're  too 
modest  —  that's  what  the  matter  with  you  !  " 

As  Hilliard  smiled  in  deprecation,  Angela,  crowing 
triumphantly,  snatched  for  the  papers. 

"Where  is  it?"  she  cried.  "Where  ...  oh!" 
And  relapsed  into  beatific  calm,  devouring  the  none  too 
conservative  paragraphs  with  all  her  might.  The 
cold-typed  repetition  of  the  well-known  story  sobered 
her  considerably;  still,  it  was  for  Hilliard's  and  her 
father's  names  that  she  gloated;  and  as  for  the 
panegyric  of  Morgan,  that  was  only  an  added  garland 
to  the  wreath  which  was  already  his. 

"Russian  and  English  syndicate,  wasn't  it?"  asked 
Mr.  Cullen,  not  too  absorbed  in  the  answer  to  refrain 
from  giving  the  garden  his  usual  brief  inspection,  and 
finding  it  attractive. 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  121 

"  Yes,"  said  Hilliard.     "  English  and  Russian." 

Mechanically,  he  began  to  rehearse  the  technical 
subtleties  which  he  hadn't  expected  to  find  use  for  within 
a  brace  of  fortnights.  It  was  well,  however,  to  be  pre- 
pared; and  the  time  to  plant  the  seed  of  desire  is  when 
the  prospect  is  willing, 

*'  Mighty  interesting  game  —  mining,"  said  Cullen. 
"  Let's  wander  down  by  the  fountain;  shall  we?  ...  I 
don't  know  why  it  is,  but  it  sort  of  fascinates  me  — 
guess  it  does  everybody.  More  romance  in  it  than  most 
lines,"  Here  Angela  looked  up  sharply,  and  gurgled 
with  wicked  satisfaction,  and  sent  a  lifted  eye-brow 
signal  across  to  Hilliard. 

"  Yes,"  said  Hilliard,  "  but  there's  more  tragedy 
too.  I  suppose  that's  the  law  of  compensation  getting 
to  work.     Big  profits  call  for  big  risks." 

This  was  for  sand  in  Cullen's  eyes ;  and  it  had  its 
effect. 

"  Oh,  but  the  ratio's  the  same  in  almost  any  business, 
Mr.  Hilliard,  isn't  it?  It's  about  the  same  theory. 
Savings  banks  pay  three  to  four  percent,  but  they 
never  made  a  man  rich  yet.     But  copper  has !  " 

"I'll  have  to  admit,"  said  Hilliard  lightly,  "that 
the  odds  are  on  the  side  of  the  experts.  But  as  for 
the  romance  — "  He  smiled  at  Angela  and  wondered 
if  he  dared  begin  so  soon  to  build  up  the  framework  of 
his  mission.  "  I've  been  telling  Angela  that  it's  mostly 
hard  work.  Once  in  a  while  you  do  run  into  something 
lurid,  of  course  —  romantic,  if  you  want  to  call  it  so. 
I  remember  one  bit  out  of  my  own  experience."  Angela 
had  dropped  the  papers,  and  was  listening  as  closely 
as  her  father.  "  A  few  years  ago  some  friends  of  mine 
bought  up  an  old  abandoned  property  out  in  the  Butte 


122  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

region;  bought  it  for  a. song,  and  it  was  a  very  quiet 
peaceful  little  song  at  that,  because  metals  had  been 
dull,  and  —  to  continue  the  metaphor  —  mj  friends 
weren't  in  particularly  good  voice  just  then.  But  after 
they'd  taken  title,  they  realized  that  they'd  only  sung 
the  first  verse  to  the  soiig,  and  there  were  a  lot  more 
verses  and  a  pretty  strenuous  chorus.  There  was  a 
shaft  to  be  unwatered  and  a  lot  of  timber-work  to 
be  done ;  they  were  in  for  a  big  expense,  and  their  credit 
had  tucks  in  it,  and  the  outlook  wasn't  any  too  rosy. 
But  thirty  yards  from  the  main  workings  there  was  a 
fairish  sort  of  tunnel,  with  the  start  of  a  winze  —  that's 
a  blind  shaft  running  down  obliquely  from  a  horizontal 
tunnel  —  and  it  pointed  straight  towards  the  main 
shaft,  and  it  occurred  to  them  that  they  could  continue 
that  winze  another  few  feet,  strike  their  main  shaft 
at  about  the  hundred  and  fifty  foot  level,  and  save  a 
lot  of  labour  and  expense  that  way  by  getting  a  clean 
approach  to  the  shaft  instead  of  taking  a  lot  of  bother 
with  it  in  its  decrepit  condition.  Well,  they  began  to 
go  down  that  winze,  and  inside  of  ten  feet  they  struck  a 
brand  new  and  unsuspected  vein  —  there  hadn't  been 
any  outcrop  showing;  it  was  sheer,  unadulterated  luck. 
Then  they  had  credit  —  they  certainly  did !  To  make 
a  long  story  short,  they  pawned  their  futures,  and 
begged  and  borrowed  every  penny  they  could  lay  their 
hands  on,  and  they  developed  that  property  to  the 
last  cent,  and  when  they  had  perhaps  two  hundred 
thousand  or  so  tons  of  four  percent  copper  in  sight, 
and  there  were  indicated  ore  reserves  of  another  lialf 
a  million  tons,  they  sold  that  property  to  a  group 
of  New  Yorkers  for  an  utterly  phenomenal  price,  with- 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  123 

out  ever  having  so  much  as  touched  the  origmal  shaft 
for  which  they'd  bought  the  property  1 " 

"Ouch!"  said  Cullen,  and  "Goodness!"  said 
Angela. 

"  And,"  said  Hilliard,  smiling  reminiscently,  "  if  the 
original  owners  had  pushed  that  winze  for  a  couple  of 
days  more  than  they  did,  or  if  my  friends  hadn't  de- 
cided to  go  at  the  problem  in  exactly  that  way  .  .  . 
well,  as  I  say,  what's  one  man's  romance  is  another 
man's  tragedy.  My  friends  got  their  investment  back 
in  something  less  than  four  months,  and  after  that  it 
was  all  velvet.  And  the  selling  price  was  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood of  two  hundred  times  what  they'd  paid 
for  it.  That's  mining  history,  Mr.  Cullen."  And  in- 
deed it  was  —  and  the  only  fabrication  about  it  was 
Hilliard's  claim  of  friendship  for  the  lucky  owners. 
This,  as  he  assured  himself,  was  salesman's  license — • 
every  successful  operator  is  a  "  friend  "  of  any  sales- 
man. 

Cullen  nodded  thoughtfully ;  his  eyes  were  very  bright. 
Angela  was  alternately  regarding  him  with  indulgent 
pity,  and  sending  I-told-you-so  messages  to  Hilliard. 

"  Where  was  this  —  in  Montana  ?  " 

"  Silverbow  County.  Near  Butte.  Yes,  there  is 
romance  in  that  country,  Mr.  Cullen.  It's  in  every  tree 
and  every  rock,  and  in  every  hill  and  valley  and  under 
the  ground.  And  I'm  afraid  I'm  just  enough  of  a 
realist  to  find  most  of  my  own  under  the  surface." 

"  To  save  my  life,"  said  Cullen,  "  I  can't  help  think- 
ing of  that  region  as  a  Mark  Twain  sort  of  country 
—  sombreros  and  six-shooters  and  Vigilantes  and  stage 
coach  hold-nps  and  gold  dust  as  a  medium  of  exchange. 


124.  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

I  know  it's  childish,  but  I've  never  been  out  there,  and 
it's  hard  to  get  over  what  we  learned  at  school."  He 
surveyed  his  vaunted  garden  less  arrogantly ;  the  foun- 
tain, which  in  his  moments  of  complacence  had  all  the 
attributes  of  a  geyser  for  him,  was  suddenly  a  feeble 
faucet,  and  the  tidy  lawn  was  no  more  seductive  than 
a  window-box. 

"  The  up-to-date  schoolbooks,"  said  Hilliard,  laugh- 
ing, "  have  a  good  many  changes  in  them.  The  West 
of  the  early  eighties  is  all  gone,  the  atmosphere  is  all 
gone,  the  old-style  miners  are  all  gone ;  you  used  to 
see  some  picturesque  sights  even  ten  years  ago,  but 
nowadays  you  best  realize  how  the  industry  has  changed 
when  you  see  a  couple  of  pals  hunting  for  work  in  a 
Ford.  Drive  up  to  a  camp,  ask  for  a  job,  get  it,  park 
the  Ford,  take  the  tools  out  of  the  delivery  body  on 
behind,  and  pitch  in.  And  3^ou  can  imagine  the  other 
changes  that  accompany  that  one.  Of  course,  that's 
especially  typical  of  Arizona,  but  we  get  it  in  Montana, 
too.  I'm  not  saying  that  the  colour  has  gone  out  en- 
tirely, because  it  hasn't,  but  in  the  old  days  the  West 
was  the  West,  and  now  it's  moving  East  as  fast  as  it 
conveniently  can,  so  that  if  you  want  to  get  the  pure 
spirit  of  it,  as  it  is  today,  you'll  have  to  go  down  to 
Wall  Street.      That's  where  it  lives." 

"  Mining  —  mining !  "  mused  Mr.  Cullen.  "  Sounds 
adventurous  just  to  say  it!  "  He  gazed  fixedly  at  the 
tenuous  fountain. 

"  And  no  industry  is  less  understood  —  even  b}^  in- 
telligent men,  Mr.  Cullen.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  pub- 
lic doesn't  even  understand  most  of  the  commonest 
terms.     The   buying   public   doesn't    even   know    what 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  125 

it  is  buying.  That's  why  it's  so  easy  to  sell  worthless 
stock." 

"Oh,  Mr.  HiUiard!" 

"  For  instance,"  he  said.  "  I  spoke  of  a  certain 
number  of  tons  of  ore  in  sight,  and  that's  one  of  the 
very  commonest  expressions  in  a  fake  prospectus.  I 
suppose  you  know  you  couldn't  see  it,  don't  you?  " 

"  Why,  no  !  "  said  Mr.  Cullen,  blankly.  "  Couldn't 
I?  " 

"  You  might  actually  see  a  few  thousand  dollars' 
worth." 

"  Why,"  said  Angela,  surprisedly,  "  I  thought  it 
stuck  right  out  on  the  walls !  In  gobs !  And  you 
knocked  it  off  with  a  pickaxe !     And  shovelled  it  up !  " 

"  Not  exactly  that,"  said  Hilliard,  kindly.  "  Some- 
times you  go  at  an  ore  body  with  steam  shovels,  and 
other  times  you  don't.  But  when  you  remember  that 
three  or  four  pounds  of  copper  to  every  hundred  pounds 
of  rock  means  a  very  handsome  profit,  if  your  costs 
aren't  excessive,  you  have  some  idea  of  how  little  you 
could  knock  off  a  wall.  No  —  you  tear  down  the  whole 
mass.     You  go  at  it  wholesale." 

"  What  I  meant  by  romance,"  said  Mr.  Cullen, 
"  wasn't  necessarily  luck.  And  besides,  this  yarn 
you've  just  told  us  doesn't  illustrate  what  I  call  a  busi- 
ness proposition.  What  I'm  trying  to  get  at  is  that 
you've  got  an  occupation  that  isn't  a  cut-and-dried 
one  like  the  average.  There's  breadth  to  it  —  vision. 
There's  drama.  There's  the  outdoor  side  to  it. 
There's  — " 

"  Don't  forget,"  Hilliard  warned  him,  "  that  I  pur- 
posely gave  you  that  illustration,  and  I  think  you've 
missed  the  moral.     It  was  a  business  proposition.     My 


126  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

friends  bought  the  mine  for  the  values  they  knew  were 
there.  They'd  have  made  money  if  they'd  gone  ahead 
unwatering  and  timbering  and  developing  the  old  shaft 
—  so  that  it  wasn't  all  bull  luck,  not  by  any  means. 
And  I  claim  that  the  romance  and  the  drama  and  the 
excitement  is  in  the  combination  of  business  sense  with 
that  wonderful  possibility  of  accident.  You  don't  go 
in  at  random ;  you  use  your  best  judgment,  and  expect 
about  ten  percent  on  your  money  —  and  it's  the  chance 
of  getting  a  thousand  percent  that  keeps  the  game 
alive.  Some  men  don't  even  get  the  ten  .  .  .  mighty 
few  ever  get  the  thousand.  I'm  satisfied,  and  more  than 
satisfied,  that  the  gods  have  been  good  to  me,  and  put 
me  somewhere  in  between." 

Mr.  Cullen's  interest  in  the  garden  had  dwindled  to 
zero. 

"  I  suppose  for  the  people  on  the  inside,"  he  said,  "  a 
mining  proposition  is  just  as  safe  and  business-like  as 
anything  else.  And  as  you  say,  when  luck's  with  it, 
it's  unbeatable.  The  trouble  comes  in  knowing  when 
a  mine's  a  mine,  and  when  it's  a  swindle,  and  I  guess 
you  have  to  be  a  metallurgical  shark  to  know  that  any- 
way. But  the  way  things  have  been  going  for  the 
last  year  or  two,  with  all  this  speculation  in  the  metals, 
and  all  the  fortunes  that  have  been  made,  sort  of  set 
me  to  thinking  that  with  good  advice,  you  — " 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Hilliard  quickly. 
"  There's  been  mighty  little  speculation  in  metals, 
Mr.  Cullen ;  but  there's  been  a  tremendous  amount  of 
speculation  in  stock.  The  difference  between  West  and 
East;  the  diflPerence  between  insider  and  outsider;  the 
difi^erence  between  the  capitalist  and  the  gambler  is  this 
!— the  East,  the  outsider  and  the  gambler  buy  stock; 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  127 

the  West,  the  insider  and  the  capitalist  buy  mines. 
Buy  them  outright  and  develop  them  first  and  exploit 
them  afterwards.  If  they're  good,  the  West  keeps  them 
to  itself  and  pockets  the  profits ;  if  they're  shaky,  the 
West  sells  stocks  to  the  East,  and  gets  its  profit  that 
way,  and  calmly  steps  out  from  under.  And  more  than 
that,  sir,  the  average  man  who  buys  mining  stock  doesn't 
know  what  he's  getting  into.  The  public  doesn't  real- 
ize how  much  it's  paying  for  what  it  gets.  The  art 
and  science  of  underwriting  .  .  ." 

"  Now  you  just  wait  a  second,"  interrupted  Angela, 
who  had  been  fidgeting  and  playing  with  her  wrist 
watch.  "  Dad  —  Mr.  Hilliard !  This  is  awfully  in- 
teresting, but  dinner's  in  just  a  few  minutes,  and — " 

"  Plenty  of  time,"  said  CuUen,  waving  her  off. 
"  Plenty  of  time !  Go  ahead,  Mr.  Hilliard.  This  is  too 
good  to  miss.     Smoke  a  cigarette  for  an  appetizer.''" 

"  Thank  you."  Hilliard,  having  decided  to  take  com- 
plete advantage  of  the  present  opportunity,  marshalled 
his  salient  details  as  he  held  a  match  for  his  host. 
"  Well,  perhaps  I  can  show  you  best  by  an  actual  ex- 
ample. I'm  out  of  the  game  entirely,  as  I  said,  but  I 
was  invited  a  day  or  two  ago  to  join  a  New  York 
syndicate  in  financing  a  property  I  appraised  myself 
in  1914.  It's  in  the  same  district  as  the  romantic  mine 
I've  just  told  you  about;  I  don't  mean  to  imply  that 
it'll  have  the  same  sort  of  history,  but  it  looks  like  a 
good,  substantial  tiling.  It's  owned  at  present  by  four 
boys  with  a  shoe-string  apiece.  They  can't  finance  it 
themselves,  so  they  need  help,  and  they've  come  to  Wall 
Street  and  whispered  their  secret  through  a  megaphone. 
Now  suppose,  just  to  make  it  clear  all  around,  that 
you  and  I  and  Angela  are  to  form  a  syndicate  to  under- 


us  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

write  the  compan3\"  He  was  sustained  by  the  reflec- 
tion that  even  though  he  came  in  the  guise  of  a  mounte- 
bank, there  was  nothing  dishonourable  about  the  wares 
he  had  brought  to  sell. 

"  Ooh !  "  said  Angela,  joyously.     "  Thanks !  " 

Simultaneously  her  father  gave  her  a  little  frown 
of  affectionate  remonstrance,  and  Hilliard  gave  her  a 
little  smile  of  affectionate  esteem. 

"  Now  the  boys  who  own  it,"  said  Hilliard,  '*  are  in 
such  straits  that  we  can  practically  dictate  our  own 
terms.  I  don't  mean  to  imply  that  we'd  take  too  great 
an  advantage  of  them,  but  it's  a  plain  case  of  supply  and 
demand,  and  we're  naturally  interested  in  a  bargain. 
The  first  thing  to  do,  before  we  decide  any  of  the  de- 
tails, is  to  look  over  the  situation  and  find  out  exactly 
what  it  is  we're  asked  to  buy.  So  we  go  over  the 
mine  very  carefully,  and  find  that  although  it  isn't 
actually  producing  any  copper  just  j^et,  because  the 
owners  ran  out  of  money  before  they  could  get  that 
far,  it  has  enough  ore  reserves  to  guarantee  at  least  ten 
thousand  tons  a  year  for  twenty  years,  provided  the 
necessary  equipment  is  bought  and  put  into  operation. 
That  tonnage,  with  the  price  of  copper  where  it  is  now, 
—  around  thirty  cents, —  and  the  cost  of  production 
what  it  is  now,  and  other  factors  what  they  are  now 
would  eventually  mean  a  net  profit  of  about  a  quarter  of 
a  million  dollars  a  year.  So  first  we  have  these  present 
owners  organize  a  corporation,  capitalized  at  two  mil- 
lion dollars." 

Cullen  smoked  violently,  and  looked  puzzled. 

"  You're  getting  out  of  my  depth.  How  do  you 
arrive  at  that?  " 

**  That's  so  as  to  insure  ten  percent  dividends.     And 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  1£9 

the  mine  can  pay  ten  percent,  provided  we  can  arrange 
to  get  the  capital.  You  see,  Mr.  Cullen,  a  copper  mine 
isn't  like  a  factory,  and  you  can't  figure  it  the  same 
way,  because  a  factory  runs  on  indefinitely,  and  if  you 
simpl}'  replace  the  machinery  whenever  it  wears  out, 
there's  nothing  to  prevent  the  same  plant  from  keeping 
on  making  the  same  sort  of  product  for  a  hundred 
years.  But  every  pound  of  ore  you  take  out  of  a  mine 
leaves  that  much  less  for  the  future,  and  eventually 
your  ore's  going  to  be  all  gone.  And  if  this  particular 
mine  is  going  to  be  exhausted  in  about  twenty  years, 
it  stands  to  reason  that  it's  being  exhausted  at  the 
rate  of  one-twentieth,  or  five  percent,  a  year.  You 
must  take  that  always  into  consideration.  And  there- 
fore, every  stockholder  is  entitled  to  get  back  at  least 
five  percent  of  his  money  each  year  to  cover  that  de- 
preciation, in  addition  to  whatever  he  ought  to  get  for 
ordinary  profits,  which  is  another  five  percent.  Other- 
wise — " 

"  Oh  !  I  see !  "  cried  Angela. 

"  Prove  it !  "  commanded  Hilliard  indulgently. 

"  Why,  if  the  company  just  paid  five  percent  for 
twenty  years,  and  at  the  end  of  it,  your  ore  was  all 
gone,  the  people  would  only  just  have  got  their  money 
back,  and  they  wouldn't  have  made  any  real  profit  at 
aU!" 

"  Exactly  !  "  said  Hilliard.  "  So  the  company  must 
pay  at  least  ten  percent  —  half  for  bona-fide  dividends 
and  half  for  depreciation." 

"  Oho  1  "  said  Cullen,  opening  his  eyes.  "  Is  that 
why  the  big  mining  companies  pay  such  big  dividends? 
I  thought  it  was  all  clear  profit !  " 

"  No,  sir.     That's  what  I  told  you  ten  minutes  ago  — 


130  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

the  average  investor  doesn't  know  what  he's  buying. 
The  dividends  of  a  mining  company  have  to  be  very 
high  to  be  attractive  at  all;  they  have  to  make  good 
that  depreciation.  Well,  we  make  the  boys  incorporate, 
as  I  said,  for  two  million  dollars,  on  which  we  can  pay 
ten  percent.  I'll  show  you  what  the  set-up  looks  like." 
He  wrote  on  the  back  of  an  old  envelope;  CAPITAL- 
IZATION $2,000,000  —  ^00,000  shares  at  $10  each. 

"  Now,  the  company  ( and  you  must  remember  that 
so  far  we  haven't  any  official  connection  with  it),  agrees 
to  take  over  the  property,  and  pay  the  present  owners 
for  it  with  80,000  shares  of  stock,  and  it  also  agrees  to 
sell  to  you  and  Angela  and  me  the  other  120,000  shares 
at  a  dollar  apiece,  or  $120,000,  of  which  we  agree  to 
pay  half  in  cash,  and  the  balance  in  about  ninety 
days." 

"  Is  that  all  they  get  ?  "  demanded  Angela.  "  Why, 
how  stingy ! " 

"  But  —  it's  robbery  !  "  gasped  Mr.  Cullen. 

"  Hardly  that,"  said  Hilliard,  smihng.  "  The  boys 
haven't  a  penny,  and  they've  got  to  raise  money  or 
the  mine's  no  good  to  them,  because  they  couldn't 
develop  it  anyway.  We've  agreed  to  provide  the 
money,  and  we'll  let  them  manage  the  business  just  as 
before.  Besides,  don't  forget  that  they've  been  paid  by 
the  corporation  for  their  interest  with  80,000  shares 
of  stock,  and  that  what  we  do  later  will  make  it  worth 
a  fortune.  And  don't  think  that  the  $120,000  we've 
promised  to  pay  goes  to  the  boys  personally,  because  it 
doesn't ;  it  goes  into  the  treasury  of  the  company  to  be 
used  for  machinery  and  labour."     He  wrote  again. 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  131 

Stock    Paid    to    Individual 

Owners 80,000  shares 

Stock  Sold  to  Syndicate.  .    120,000  shares 


Total 200,000  shares 

"  Now,  then,"  he  said,  "  we  own  120,000  shares  for 
which  we've  paid,  and  agreed  to  pay  $120,000.  That 
is,  we've  underwritten  these  shares  for  a  dollar  apiece, 
and  paid  down  half  the  amount.  I  ask  you  to  remem- 
ber that  on  our  first  conservative  estimate,  the  value  of 
each  share  was  ten  dollars:  but  the  value  isn't  there 
until  our  brains  and  our  work  and  our  investment  has 
created  it.  Now  let's  begin  to  look  at  it  from  the 
public's  standpoint.  Here's  a  mine  with  plenty  of  ore ; 
and  a  company  with  cash  enough  on  hand  to  begin 
producing  at  a  profit  very  soon  —  although  nobody 
pretends  that  it's  actually  producing  now.  It  has 
$60,000  in  the  bank,  and  another  $60,000  due  in  ninety 
days.  It  can  go  ahead  and  contract  for  machinery  and 
workmen,  and  it  does,  and  you  and  Angela  and  I  are 
still  letting  the  former  owners  manage  it,  but  since  we're 
in  control  of  the  stock,  we  either  elect  ourselves  as  di- 
rectors, or  elect  other  people  whose  names  carry  weight 
with  the  public,  so  that  we  can  always  direct  the  gen- 
eral policy,  and  see  that  it's  careful  and  conserva- 
tive. From  every  angle,  then,  financial  and  moral,  the 
venture  looks  like  a  big  success.  So  you  and  Angela 
and  I  go  to  a  good  broker,  or  to  a  group  of  brokers, 
and  make  them  a  proposition.  We  convince  them  of  the 
value  we  have ;  we  let  them  send  their  own  engineers 
out  to  make  a  report,  and  as  evidence  of  good  faith, 
we  pay  all  their  expenses ;  we  let  them  go  over  our  books. 


132  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

Everything's  fair  and  square  and  above-board.  And 
we  agree  that  these  brokers  will  take  some  of  this  stock 
off  our  hands  to  sell  to  the  public  (because  they've  got 
a  selling  organization  alreadj'  established,  and  plenty 
of  customers  who  look  to  them  for  advice)  and  it's 
agreed  that  they'll  pay  us  —  say,  four  dollars  a  share 
for  what  they  think  they  can  sell.  Now  we're  getting 
down  to  simple  arithmetic."  He  gestured,  as  a  school- 
master gestures.  "  How  many  shares  have  we  got  to 
place  with  the  brokers,  at  four  dollars  apiece,  to  get 
back  the  $60,000  we've  already  advanced,  and  the  addi- 
tional $60,000  that's  due  in  three  months.?" 

"  Thirty  thousand,"  said  Angela  briskly- . 

"  Thirty  thousand,"  corroborated  her  father.  At 
this  juncture,  a  bell  was  ringing  persistently  from  the 
direction  of  the  house,  but  no  one  noticed  it. 

"Right!"  Hilliard  made  the  notation  on  the  back 
of  the  envelope.  "  And  as  an  added  inducement,  we'd 
have  to  give  the  brokers  a  rather  long  option  on  some 
more  stock  —  they  insist  on  it,  and  it's  customary.  If 
they  take  up  the  option,  we're  paid  cash,  and  if  they 
don't,  we'll  keep  the  stock  for  ourselves  anyway.  Also, 
we  arrange  to  pay  all  our  own  lawyers,  and  experts, 
and  all  the  commissions,  and  so  on,  in  stock,  to  save 
cash.  That's  customary,  too,  when  the  proposition's  so 
evidently  honest.  The  brokers  then  do  some  advertis- 
ing, send  out  their  circulars  and  bulletins  and  pamphlets 
to  their  customers,  and  sell  that  stock  to  the  public 
for  an3rv\^here  from  six  to  eight  dollars  a  share.  That 
is,  the  public  is  glad  enough,  when  the  prospect's  a  good 
one,  to  pay  seven  or  eight  dollars  (because  every  share's 
going  to  be  worth  ten)  for  what  cost  the  broker  four 
dollars,  and  cost  us  one  dollar  —  which  we've  already 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  133 

got  back  from  the  brokers,  and  we've  still  got  the  half 
of  those  120,000  shares  of  ours  left  besides !  So  here's 
the  final  balance  sheet !  "  He  hastily  totalled  the  list, 
and  handed  it  over  to  Cullen. 

Capitalization  $2,000,000  —  200,000  shares 

at  $10. 
Stock   Paid   to   Individual 

Owners 80,000  shares 

Stock   Sold   to   Syndicate 

FOE  $120,000 120,000  shares 

Total 200,000  shares 

Of  Our  120,000  shares 
We  sell  to  brokers 30,000  shares 

Leaving 90,000  shares 

We   give   brokers    a   2   year 

option  at  $5  apiece  on .  .      20,000  shares 

Leaving 70,000  shares 

We    pay    lawyers,    experts, 

etc 10,000  shares 

Leaving 60,000  shares 

"  And  that  balance  of  60,000  shares,"  he  said,  "  be- 
longs to  us  three.  The  brokers  are  making  a  market 
and  establishing  a  price ;  and  in  order  to  protect  them- 
selves, they  can't  afford  to  let  the  stock  sell  under  the 
price  theyWe  charging  the  public  —  because  if  they 
did,  the  public  wouldn't  buy  up  the  rest  of  what  the 


134  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

brokers  have  to  sell,  but  they'd  buy  it  in  the  open 
market.  So  the  brokers  protect  the  market,  by  what's 
considered  perfectly  legitimate  means,  although  some 
folks  call  it  manipulation,  and  they  keep  the  price  up 
by  main  strength  until  the  first  dividend  is  paid,  and 
after  that  they  don't  have  to  worry,  because  now  every- 
body sees  what  a  good  thing  it  is,  and  flocks  in  to  take 
advantage  of  it,  and  the  quotations  jump  up  to  twelve 
or  fifteen.  Everybody's  made  money ;  the  brokers  have 
made  theirs ;  the  public's  making  theirs,  and  when  the 
price  is  right  the  syndicate  sells  in  open  market  the 
60,000  shares  it  had  left,  and  you  and  Angela  and  I  have 
each  made  a  quarter  of  a  million  dollars  without  really 
risking  a  single  cent!  Because,  as  I  said,  we  got  our 
money  back  right  at  the  beginning." 

Angela,  who  had  followed  the  intricacies  of  the  set-up 
with  the  liveliest  interest,  turned  pale;  and  Cullen's 
jaw  sagged.  Hilliard,  returning  his  fountain  pen  to 
his  pocket  with  the  utmost  nonchalance,  had  no  more 
apprehension  left  in  him,  for  Cullen  had  swallowed  the 
bait  whole.  Cullen,  Average  Man  that  he  was, —  a 
good  enough  manager  of  his  own  small  enterprise,  but 
woefully  ignorant  of  the  financial  world  at  large  — 
Cullen  coughed  raspingly. 

"  It's  a  very  pretty  picture,  but  suppose  the  market 
never  goes  up?  " 

"  It  will  as  soon  as  there's  a  dividend  in  sight ;  that's 
inevitable.  And  even  if  it  stays  pegged  at  seven  or 
eight,  there's  a  huge  profit  for  us,  isn't  there.'*  " 

"  But  suppose  there's  never  a  di^adend  ?  " 

"  Don't  we  know  there  will  ha?  Didn't  I  say  we  con- 
trol the  Board  of  Directors  .'^  " 

"  But  suppose  you  can't  find  brokers  to  — " 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  135 

Hilliard  gesticulated  broadly. 

"  Why,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  we  don't  care  very  much 
if  we  don't!  That's  the  commoner  method,  and  that's 
the  way  to  get  our  money  back  almost  at  once,  and 
then  play  on  velvet.  But  if  instead  of  working  through 
brokers,  we  were  willing  to  tie  up  our  capital  a  little 
longer,  we'd  make  considerably  more  money  in  the  long 
run,  as  you  can  plainly  see.  We'd  advance  our  him- 
dred  and  twenty  thousand  dollars,  wait  until  dividends 
could  be  declared,  and  then  get  the  stock  listed  on  the 
Curb  and  begin  to  feed  it  out  to  the  public  through 
a  fiscal  agency.  There'd  be  twice  as  much  in  it  for  us, 
but  we  wouldn't  be  in  that  perfectly  delightful  position 
of  owning  a  lot  of  valuable  stock  which  literally  hadn't 
cost  us  anything.  Or,  of  course,  we  could  oifer  some 
of  the  shares  to  our  personal  friends  at  a  fair  price, 
and  reimburse  ourselves  that  way.  Knowing  that  it's 
worth  ten  or  fifteen,  we  wouldn't  feel  very  guilty  about 
selling  it  to  personal  acquaintances  at  eight  or  nine, 
would  we?  Why  not  —  when  we  know  for  a  certainty 
that  it  ought  to  go  up  to  fifteen?  They'd  bless  us  for 
it!" 

"  But  the  main  point ;  the  staggering  thing  about 
it,  is—" 

"  Is  that  if  the  public  gets  ten  or  fifteen  percent 
dividends,"  said  Hilliard,  "  or  buys  at  ten  and  sells  a 
few  dollars  higher,  it  thinks  it's  lucky;  and  in  the 
meantime,  the  underwriters  make  anything  up  to  a 
thousand  percent,  and  get  it  in  a  few  months.  And 
I've  known  some  of  these  syndicates  to  turn  over  in  a 
few  days." 

"  Oh,  I  want  to  do  it !  "  said  Angela  ecstatically.  "  I 
want  to  do  it!     Dad!     Let's  be  a  syndicate  and  go 


136  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

out  to  Montana  until  it's  over !  Come  on !  Let's ! " 
Hilliard  laughed  cheerfully  at  her. 

"  In  this  particular  case,"  he  said,  *'  the  syndicate's 
about  half  formed.  Nothing  final,  but  it's  pending. 
And  it  is  good  —  so  good  that  I  doubt  if  any  layman 
could  break  into  it  with  a  cold  chisel."  Again,  he 
excused  himself  on  the  ground  of  salesman's  license. 
"  But  that's  the  fundamental  idea,  Mr.  Cullen  —  that's 
how  the  thing  is  done,  and  that's  how  the  public  carries 
the  whole  burden  of  financing,  and  doesn't  know  it.  Do 
you  wonder  I  say  that  the  spirit  of  the  modern  West 
is  down  in  Wall  Street?  " 

He  assumed  an  attitude  of  easy  unconcern.  Angela, 
her  breath  coming  rapidly,  was  regarding  him  with 
awe-struck  eyes.  Mr.  Cullen,  his  mouth  drawn  to  a 
perfectly  straight  line,  was  gazing  spellbound  at  the 
orderly  array  of  figures  on  the  envelope. 

"And  this  —  is  a  genuine  mine?"  he  managed  pres- 
ently. 

"  In  my  opinion,  it's  a  very  wonderful  prospect," 
said  Hilliard,  and  he  believed  every  word  of  that  solemn 
statement. 

Mr.  Cullen  folded  the  envelope,  and  then  suddenly, 
as  though  too  cautious  to  betray  his  profound  absorp- 
tion (which  he  had  been  betraying  frankly  for  at  least 
twenty  minutes),  tossed  it  back  to  Hilliard. 

"  When  you've  got  a  syndicate  that'll  let  me  in  for 
say,  thirty  cents,"  he  said,  with  elaborate  humour, 
"  just  pass  along  the  good  word,  will  you?  " 

"  I  never  try  to  do  business  with  my  friends,"  said 
Hilliard,  with  the  most  delicate  touch  of  reproof. 

"  \  good  principle,  too,  but  — "  Mr.  Cullen  glanced 
at  his  watch.     "  It's  dinner  time,  and  more  too.     We'd 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  137 

better  get  along  up  to  the  house,  or  the  first  thing  you 
know,  we'll  have  servant  troubles  in  our  midst.  And 
jou  didn't  bring  up  that  subject  anyway  —  /  brought 
it  up."  He  took  Angela's  arm  paternally.  "  Just  as 
a  matter  of  fact,"  he  said,  clearing  his  throat.  "  As 
a  matter  of  fact,  Mr.  Hilliard  —  whereabouts  did  you 
say  this  property  is  located.''  " 

Shortly  after  dinner  Angela,  who  had  fled  to  the 
telephone  in  answer  to  a  peremptory  summons,  came 
back  complacent. 

"  Dinner  at  the  Durants'  on  Sunday,"  she  announced. 
"  All  three  of  us.  Very  quiet,  Carol  said.  So  I  ac- 
cepted —  and  that  means  you've  got  to  stay  with  us 
two  days  more  anyway,  Mr.  Hilliard.  Do  you  mind 
ver^'  much?  " 

"  Mind!  "  Hilliard  had  risen  half  out  of  his  chair. 
His  tremendous  yearning  to  see  Carol  again,  and  his 
violent  reaction  at  the  prospect,  had  greatly  influenced 
his  voice,  which  was  strident,  explosive.  The  Cullens 
were  laughing  aloud   at  his  confusion. 

"Why,  Mr.  Hilliard!"  said  Cullen,  jocosely.  "Is 
our  own  cooking  as  bad  as  all  that.''" 

"He's  blushing!"  crowed  Angela.  "Look  at  him  I 
Look  at  him  !  " 

Indeed,  he  was  crimson  to  the  temples.  Sunday  — 
forty-eight  hours  !  How  he  had  spurned  her  !  —  and 
how  he  had  suffered  from  that  moment  until  now!  To 
see  her  again  .  .  .  merely  to  see  her !  Business  was 
business,  and  the  farce  must  go  on ;  no  matter  what  else 
happened,  he  must  hew  out  his  success  ;  he  had  ceased 
to  love  her,  and  he  bad  come  prepared  for  guerilla  war- 
fare .  .  .  but  to  see  her  again !     To  hear  her  voice ! 


138  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

To  watch  that  smile  of  hers,  and  remember  the  tears 
she  had  shed  for  Dicky  Morgan ! 

Sunday  —  forty-eight  hours  ! 

The  Cullens  were  still  laughing  at  him,  and  in  ^ngeia's 
soprano  there  was  a  note  of  feminine  resentment,  but 
Hill'ard's  ears  were  suddenly  stone  deaf. 


XI 

^^TV/TUSIC,"  said  the  Doctor  absently,  "must  be  very 
•*-^-*'  unmoral." 

From  the  piano,  Carol  laughed  quietly,  and  went  on 
playing,  and  playing  beautifully,  his  hackneyed  old 
favourite,  the  Rachmaninoif  Prelude  in  C  Minor. 

"Why?"  she  asked. 

"  Because  morality,"  said  the  Doctor,  blowing  smoke 
at  the  fireplace,  "  isn't  much  more  than  the  crushing 
down  of  impulses  that  we  wouldn't  try  to  crush  down 
at  all  if  we  weren't  what  we're  pleased  to  call  civilized. 
Therefore  it's  unmoral  to  attempt  to  arouse  those  im- 
pulses. But  some  kinds  of  music  have  the  power  of 
depriving  some  kinds  of  people  of  the  freedom  of  the 
will.  And  so  I  say  it  must  be  unmoral,  because  it's 
seductive,  and  because  it  makes  people  stop  being  ob- 
jective, and  makes  them  subjective,  and  at  the  mercy 
of  the  particular  emotion  that's  stirred  up." 

A  pause.     The  chords  rose,  and  died  to  pianissimo. 

"  Does  it  make  any  difference  to  you,"  inquired  Carol 
presently,  "  that  I  haven't  the  faintest  idea  what  you're 
talking  about.?  " 

The  Doctor  sighed  comfortably. 

"  I'm  only  thinking,"  he  said,  "  that  as  far  as  I'm 
concerned  music  has  all  the  qualities  of  any  other  drug." 

"Drug.'^"     Her  intonation  was   one  of  perplexity. 

"  Drug,"  said  the  Doctor.  "  Narcotic ;  stimulant. 
When  a  man's  under  the  influence  of  alcohol,  he's  a  dis- 
grace; if  he  eats  hasheesh,  he's  boycotted;  but  if  he 

139 


140  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

takes  music  unto  himself,  and  loses  his  volition  un- 
der—" 

"Don't  be  a  silly!"  she  reproved  him.  "That's 
a  very  far-fetched  comparison.  .  .  .  What  shall  I  play 
now?  " 

"  Anything  you  like  .  .  .  but  I  insist  it's  unmoral." 

Carol  swung  towards  him. 

"  WTiatever's  got  into  you  tonight.''  Am  I  boring 
you?" 

"  Quite  the  contrary." 

"  Then  what  is  it  ?  What's  all  this  nonsense  about 
drugs  and  things  ?  " 

The  Doctor  smiled  reassuringly. 

"  I'm  perfectly  serious,  my  dear.  Music,  in  its  emo- 
tional aspect,  has  had  a  great  deal  to  do  with  the  his- 
tory of  the  world.  It  affects  some  types  of  men,  espe- 
cially rather  ascetic  men,  as  no  other  influence  ever 
could.  It  does  me.  It  always  has.  And  I  was  think- 
ing how  unreasonable  we  are,  when  we've  got  such  a 
power  all  ready  to  use,  not  to  make  more  out  of  it.  It 
isn't  used  in  any  of  the  modern  cults,  it  never  had  a 
place  in  any  of  the  mental  cures  that  I  remember,  and 
yet  it's  a  nerve  tonic,  and  a  vitalizer,  and  an  opiate, 
and  —" 

"  Doctor !  You're  saying  it's  unmoral,  and  then 
you  — " 

"  Certainly.  Just  as  I  say  that  tobacco's  a  poison, 
but  it's  the  pleasantest  poison  there  is.  Just  as  I 
say,  more  seriously,  that  morphine  is  an  unmoral  sub- 
stance, but  if  it's  used  with  discretion,  it's  invaluable." 

"  Well,  what  music  is  like  tobacco  ?  Answer  me 
that!" 

"Mendelssohn  has  about  the  same  effect,"  said  the 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  141 

Doctor,  placidly.  "  Mendelssohn's  a  clear  Havana ; 
and  Grieg's  similar,  but  Grieg  has  a  Connecticut  wrap- 
per —  pardon  the  discrimination." 

"But—"  She  breathed  impatiently.  "The  idea 
of  comparing  music  with  .  .  .  well,  with  anything! 
And  you're  comparing  it  with  everything.  The  next 
thing,  you'll  say  it's  a  beverage  1  It's  ridiculous ! 
Why  not  compare  it  with  whiskey?  Whiskey  makes 
men  do  azcful  things.  .  .  .  You  never  heard  of  a  man 
getting  so  intoxicated  on  music  that  he  killed  any- 
body, did  you.'^  " 

"  There  was  a  time,"  said  the  Doctor,  "  when  I  think 
I  could  have  killed  the  man  who  wrote  Narcissus,  and 
never  had  a  qualm.  And  I  should  hate  to  have  heard 
The  Merry  Widow  Waltz  another  dozen  times,  and 
then  met  the  composer  in  a  dark  alley.  .  .  .  What  I 
really  meant,  of  course,  was  that  if  you  get  a  listener 
who's  really  sensitive,  you  can  play  on  his  emotions  by 
music  more  effectively  than  by  any  other  means  I  know 
of.  I  was  thinking  of  the  unmorality  of  it  in  that  sense 
—  of  the  possibilities.  And  you'll  find  examples  in 
literature  —  as  far  back  as  the  Bible  - —  and  in  the  his- 
tory of  every  country  in  the  world.  The  human  voice 
and  the  violin,  separately,  are  the  two  most  potent  in- 
fluences for  good  or  evil  that  I  can  imagine;  and  col- 
lectively, an  orchestra  has  more  possibilities  than  an 
apothecary's  shop  on  the  man  who's  responsive  enough. 
.  .  .  Please  go  ahead." 

Over  her  shoulder,  as  she  turned  back  to  the  instru- 
ment, Carol  flung  a  playfully  biting  comment. 

"  I  think  you're  proving  your  theory,  all  right,"  she 
said.     "  You've  had  about  one  too  many,  /  think." 

"  No,"  said  the  Doctor,  "  and  not  nearly  enough. 


U2  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

As  it  happens,  you're  soothing  me  very  nicely.  But 
when  I  was  younger,  I  never  could  bear  to  hear  certain 
people  sing  —  especially  contraltos.  A  contralto  could 
have  wrecked  my  home,  if  anybody  could.  And  then 
if  the  right  conductor  and  the  right  orchestra  had 
played  the  Intermezzo  from  Cavalleria  (before  the  hand 
organs  got  hold  of  it),  I  should  have  reformed.  .  .  . 
What's  that?" 

"  A  descriptive  tone-poem  .  .  .  guess  what  it's  sup- 
posed to  be?  " 

"Moonlight  in  a  boiler  factory.?^" 

"  Stupid !     It's  a  revery." 

"A  what?" 

"  A  revery  .  .  .  like  it  ?  " 

"  Nux  vomica,"  said  the  Doctor,  judicially.  "  Or 
...  or  aspirin.     Swallow  it  quickly,  and  — " 

"  If  you're  not  good,  I'U  stop  I  I  will ! "  Never- 
theless, she  switched  suddenly  to  another  of  his  hack- 
neyed favourites,  the  Marche  MHitaire.  The  Doctor 
held  his  cigar  poised,  until  it  went  out.  He  sat  mo- 
tionless, reflective.  He  stirred  scarcely  an  eyelash  un- 
til Carol,  an  appreciable  moment  after  she  had  finished, 
turned  again. 

"Well?"  she  said  at  length. 

"  Unmoral  —  unmoral,"  said  the  Doctor,  under  his 
breath.  "  And  next  to  an  orchestra,  comes  the  piano. 
.  .  .  You  do  play  beautifully,  Carol.  You  put  such 
curious  thoughts  into  my  mind  ...  as  though  you  were 
speaking  to  me  in  counterpoint ;  saying  what  you  never 
would  say  in  words  .  .  .  and  then,  again,  there's  the 
composer  talking  to  both  of  us.  .  .  .  Doesn't  it  make 
you  think  of  the  hymn  — 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  14>a 

Mourir  pour  la  patrie 
C'est  le  sort  le  plus  beau 
Le  plus  digue  d'envie  — 

It  does  me.  .  .  .  And  of  so  many  other  things  —  and 
people." 

"  Yes,"  she  said.     "  It  does  that  —  of  course." 

The  Doctor  stretched  himself,  and  tenderly  relighted 
his  cigar. 

"  I've  seen  a  man,"  he  said  irrelevantly,  "  who's  on 
the  ragged  edge  of  nervous  exhaustion.  He  needs  a 
lot  of  things  —  peace,  and  religion,  and  love,  and  en- 
couragement, and  sympathy  .  .  .  and  some  day,  some 
fool  of  a  physician  is  going  to  soak  him  in  tonics  and 
blood-builders,  and  make  him  worse.  I've  been  won- 
dering if  you  care  to  do  some  volunteer  nursing." 

"I?"  she  exclaimed.     "Why,  1  can't—" 

"  Everything  I've  mentioned,"  he  said,  "  you  can 
give  him  with  your  ten  fingers,  I  think.  Because  I'm 
pretty  thoroughly  convinced  that  he's  as  sensitive  a 
young  fool  as  I  am  an  old  one.  So  I'm  wondering  if 
you'd  have  any  objection  to  letting  him  come  around 
here  rather  often,  and  listening  to  you  play." 

"  You're  not  serious  !  " 

"  Oh,  but  I  am ! "  he  said.  "  He's  friendless,  and 
he's  so  desperately  impressionable  that  you  could  preach 
him  sermons,  and  give  him  refreshment,  and  clear  the 
cobwebs  out  of  his  brain,  and  put  his  mentality  in  or- 
der, and  probably  send  him  home  to  shed  a  few  tears 
on  his  pillow  —  just  as  you  can  do  to  me  sometimes. 
And  none  of  us  can  possibly  talk  to  him,  and  the  drug- 
store hasn't  anything  that'll  do  him  any  good,  and  I 
want  you  to  try.  Just  to  please  me;  just  for  an  ex- 
periment.    Will  jou?  " 


144  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

"But  .  .  .  how  funny!" 

"  No,"  said  the  Doctor,  "  merely  the  line  of  least 
resistance.  I'm  prescribing  .  .  ,  well,  about  the  same 
program  you  played  tonight.  Carol,  it  isn't  humor- 
ous —  music  can  make  a  man  relax  quicker  than  almost 
anything  else  I  know,  and  to  relax  is  what  this  man 
needs  most.  If  he'd  thoroughly  break  down  for  a  quar- 
ter of  a  minute,  the  job's  done.  He'll  break  sooner  or 
later,  but  the  right  sort  of  break  is  going  to  help  him, 
and  the  wrong  sort  is  going  to  harm  him.  So  I  want 
to  try  what  you  might  call  indirect  psychic  magnetism 
on  him.  After  that,  it  might  be  time  to  take  up  some 
other  method  of  treatment,  but  as  I've  told  you  so 
often,  the  practice  of  medicine  is  chiefly  the  practice 
of  substituting  something  else  for  medicine.  It's  an 
experiment,  but  I  want  to  make  it." 

"  Well  —  who's  the  patient.?  " 

"  He  isn't  a  patient  of  mine  —  not  even  a  friend. 
That's  why  there's  so  much  chance  of  success  —  he 
won't  suspect  that  he's  being  treated.  I  merely  want 
you  to  play  on  his  emotions  —  to  bring  out  all  the 
sentiment  there  is  in  him.     Melt  him." 

"Well  — who  i5  it.?" 

"  It's  Mr.  Hilliard,"  said  the  Doctor,  slowly. 

"Oh!" 

The  Doctor  smoked  with  close  attention  to  the  ash. 

"  Of  course,  I  may  be  wrong  .  .  .  but  Cullen  told  me 
today  that  yesterday  he  was  very  seriously  upset. 
Organically,  I  believe  he's  sound.  But  he's  been  under 
a  strain,  and  he  can't  seem  to  relieve  himself  of  it,  so 
that  it'll  have  to  be  done  for  him.  He's  alone ;  terribly 
alone.     He's  as  sensitive  as  I  am  —  perhaps  even  more. 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  145 

Cullen  tells  me  that  he  reacts  to  the  simplest  kindnesses 
as  though  he'd  had  a  bad-tempered  stepmother.  His 
ego  is  all  clogged  up  with  inhibitions  that  he  can't  get 
rid  of.  He's  apparently  going  to  stay  here  indefinitely, 
and  —  we  have  a  very  evident  debt  to  him.  I'm  not  his 
adviser,  nor  his  physician,  but  I've  made  a  diagnosis 
just  the  same,  for  humanity's  sake,  and  at  the  worst, 
we  can't  harm  him.   .  .  .   Shall  we  try  it.^  " 

Carol,  whose  eyes  had  been  on  the  floor,  nodded 
assent. 

*'  Yes,"  she  consented,  quietly.  '^  I'm  willing ;  if 
you  really  think  it's  worth  while.  .  .  .  Just  what  was 
it  you  wanted  me  to  do  ?  " 

"  Simply  to  have  him  come  here,"  said  the  Doctor, 
"  and  sit  and  smoke  .  .  .  and  you  play  .  .  .  well,  about 
the  same  sort  of  things  you  used  to  play  to  Dick  and 
me  .  .  .  before  the  war.  .  .  .  You  remember  how  you 
could  always  manage  Dick  that  way,  don't  you?  " 

Her  head  had  sunk  very  low,  and  her  voice  was  all 
but  inaudible. 

"  But  I  couldn't  —  save  him  from  himself,  could 
I.''  "  she  said,  tremulously. 

"Who  knows?"  said  the  Doctor.  "Under  the  cir- 
cumstances, maybe  you  did.  Somebody  did.  Or  — 
at  least  that's  what  I  gather  from  what  Mr.  Hilliard 
says  .  .  .  and  Dick  was  saved  in  the  larger  sense, 
wasn't  he?  " 

"  Y-yes,  if  — " 

"  Who  else  in  town  ever  sang  Stevenson's  Requiem 
to  him  beside  you?"  asked  the  Doctor  gently.  "And 
why  do  you  suppose  it  came  to  him  —  as  Mr.  Hilliard 
says  it  did  —  when  he  went  into  action  ?  .  .  ." 


146  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

He  tossed  away  the  cigar,  and  held  out  his  arms  to 

her. 

"Here,    dear,"    said    the    Doctor    compassionately. 

"  Here  —  always !  " 


xn 


SINCE  Friday  night,  Hilliard  had  lived  only  for  Sun- 
day ;  his  whole  existence  had  been  tuned  to  Sunday, 
and  when  at  last  the  morning  dawned,  his  greatest  fear 
was  that  he  might  not  live  until  dinner-time.  At 
church,  where  the  Cullens  had  taken  him  as  a  matter 
of  course,  he  heard  nothing  whatsoever  of  the  sermon ; 
his  first  real  consciousness  of  his  own  being  was  when, 
as  he  rose  at  the  end  of  the  service,  he  discovered  to  his 
unutterable  chagrin  that  the  Durants  had  been  sitting 
a  scant  six  pews  behind  him.  The  belated  knowledge 
suffocated  him;  he  felt  as  though  his  ignorance  had 
robbed  him  of  a  precious  hour  which  could  never  be  re- 
gained ;  and  the  thought  of  how  little  he  could  have  done 
in  that  hour  never  occurred  to  him.  This,  too,  is  one 
of  the  signs.  .  .  . 

On  reaching  Carol's  side,  he  was  both  awkward  and 
incoherent ;  and  he  failed  to  derive  encouragement  from 
the  realization  which  gradually  stole  over  him,  that  the 
Durants  had  asked  a  number  of  other  guests  to  dinner. 
Armstrong  was  waiting  patiently  in  the  aisle,  and  keep- 
ing closer  to  Carol  than  Hilliard  liked,  and  there  was 
also  a  bright-faced  boy  of  nineteen  or  twenty  who  had 
promptly  attached  himself  to  Angela  —  his  name  was 
Waring,  and  he  was  the  grandson  of  the  patriarchal 
clergyman,  with  the  head  of  Moses  and  the  spirit  of 
youth,  who  presently  came  down  to  join  the  little  group, 
and  complete  it.  So  that  altogether  there  were  nine 
people  who  finally  sat  down  to  table;  and  Hilliard's 

147 


148  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

dream  of  quiet  progress  and  harboured  conversation 
was  shattered  in  a  twinkling.  To  be  sure,  he  was  next 
to  Carol,  but  Armstrong  was  on  her  other  side,  and 
Armstrong  was  attentively  discursive.  Hilliard  was 
forced  to  devote  himself  mainly  to  Mrs.  Durant;  and 
she  said  afterwards  that  he  was  one  of  the  most  absent- 
minded  men  she  had  ever  talked  at. 

It  was  all  very  homelike,  and  all  very  friendly,  but  to 
Hilliard,  sitting  there  between  Carol  and  her  mother, 
the  occasion  was  peculiarly  acute.  He  had  long  since 
discarded  any  residue  of  his  active  fears ;  he  was  con- 
fident in  his  disguise  to  the  point  of  recklessness,  for  he 
had  covered  the  windings  of  the  trail  by  an  infinite  va- 
riety of  methods ;  and  yet  without  having  any  tangible 
facts  to  grasp,  he  was  subtly  warned  to  remain  on  sentry 
duty  over  his  poise.  As  he  glanced  around  the  table, 
he  could  see  no  one  whom,  directly  or  indirectly,  in  per- 
son or  by  hearsay,  he  had  failed  to  propitiate  and 
disarm ;  and  yet  he  was  conscious  that  his  nerves  irked 
him.  To  reassure  himself  still  further,  he  catalogued 
the  party,  one  by  one;  Angela  adored  him,  ;ind  Mr. 
Cullen  (especially  after  Hilliard's  mild  but  repeated 
refusals  of  yesterday  and  the  day  before  to  talk  what 
Mr.  Cullen  called  "  brass  tacks  ")  was  somewhat  be- 
wilderingly  a  friend ;  the  venerable  clergyman  had  noted 
Hilliard's  presence  at  church,  and  thanked  him  for  it; 
and  had  heard  what  pains  he  had  taken  to  come  to 
Syracuse  as  a  bearer  of  tidings,  however  sombre,  and 
thanked  him  for  that.  Dr.  and  jMrs.  Durant  were 
supremely  cordial,  and  Carol,  if  not  demonstrative,  was 
at  least  appreciative.  Only  the  two  young  bachelors, 
Armstrong  and  Waring,  showed  even  the  remotest  signs 
of  reserve,  and  Hilliard,  knowing  exactly  why,  and  not 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  149 

blaming  them  in  the  slightest,  exerted  himself  to  smile 
upon  them  as  warmly  as  he  could,  and  to  convey  the 
impression  that  he  was  interested  in  Angela  and  Carol 
only  as  individuals  to  whom  he  had  been  directed  to 
report,  and  not  as  lovely  young  women  on  their  own 
account.  But  even  so,  he  knew  that  his  restlessness 
wasn't  due  primarily  to  any  lurking  opposition  on  the 
part  of  Waring  or  of  Armstrong,  and  although  he 
occupied  himself  for  the  moment  in  an  endeavour  to 
mollify  them,  he  never  ceased  his  attempt  to  analyse  his 
uneasy  mood,  and  to  take  steps  to  replace  it.  He 
met,  however,  with  unvarying  failure. 

He  was  gratified  that  the  conversation,  after  one 
natural  enough  eddy,  was  whirled  away  from  the  vicis- 
situdes of  Dicky  Morgan,  for  he  had  talked  his  fill  on 
that  particular  subject.  And  when  the  eddy  had 
straightened  itself  out,  it  became  a  rather  sprightly  sort 
of  general  conversation,  all  things  considered;  and  to 
Hilliard,  in  spite  of  his  minor  intuitions,  it  was  a  dis- 
tinct relief  to  sit  for  once  as  a  mere  listener  and 
spectator.  For  a  time,  he  amused  himself  by  watching 
Angela  and  Waring  playing  their  world-old  game  across 
the  table;  after  that,  he  paid  a  little  polite  attention 
to  Mrs.  Durant,  and  to  the  clergyman;  and  then 
snatching  an  opportunity  unlooked  for,  he  gave  his 
kindest  smile  to  Carol,  and  for  an  instant,  took  the 
monopoly  from  Armstrong.  And  he  had  hardly  looked 
down  once  into  her  October-brown  eyes  before  the  mys- 
tery of  his  restlessness  was  as  clear  as  crystal,  and 
Hilliard  was   thoroughly   dumbfounded,  and  confused. 

It  had  come  upon  him,  a  quarter  of  an  hour  ago, 
as  they  exchanged  their  first  superficial  sentences,  that 
he  was  lonelier  than  he  had  ever  imagined,  but  he  hadn't 


150  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

realized,  until  this  immediate  contingency,  that  this 
sensation  had  carried  over  until  now.  He  was  pre- 
vented, by  the  very  limits  of  the  project  which  had 
brought  him  here,  from  releasing  any  of  his  true  emo- 
tions or  from  putting  forward  any  of  his  sincere 
thoughts ;  he  hadn't  comprehended,  until  he  had  learned 
the  truth  just  now  by  actual  experience,  that  loneli- 
ness is  nothing  but  an  aggravated  state  of  self-repres- 
sion. He  was  prevented  from  being  even  moderately 
spontaneous;  he  couldn't  permit  his  true  personality 
to  find  an  outlet.  Never  in  all  his  life,  not  even  when 
he  had  lain  for  months  in  hospital  in  France,  had  he 
been  as  lonely  as  today,  and  at  this  moment,  when  he 
was  surrounded  by  people  he  knew  intimately,  and  when 
he  was  enjoined  from  sharing  in  their  community  of 
mind.  He  suffered  as  though  he  had  suddenly  been 
stricken  dumb. 

Carol,  looking  up  at  him  with  what  wasn't  exactly  a 
smile,  but  was  at  least  a  cousin  to  it  —  that  well-remem- 
bered flash  of  sympathetic  interest  —  Carol  spoke  to 
him  under  cover  of  the  general  conversation. 

"A  penny  for  your  thoughts.'^"  she  proffered. 

"  They  aren't  worth  it,"  said  Hilliard.  "  I  was 
thinking  about  myself."  He  continued  to  regard  her 
steadily,  and  he  was  alarmed  to  discover  that  he  was 
losing  one  of  the  abilities  which  had  made  him  so  sure 
of  himself.  A  day  or  two  ago  he  had  been  able  to  gaze 
at  her  with  profound  indifference ;  since  their  last  meet- 
ing, however,  he  had  thought  so  constantly  of  her  that 
he  was  involuntarily  softened,  and  made  more  plastic; 
but  still,  he  had  refused  to  yield  entirely  to  his  voli- 
tions ;  now,  he  was  grudgingly  compelled  to  admit  that 
she  was  no  less  desirable  than  formerly.     He  continued 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  151 

to  hold  that  she  had  treated  him  shabbily,  mercilessly ; 
but  notwithstanding  that,  as  he  gazed  at  her,  and  per- 
ceived the  sweet  naturalness  which  was  developing  out 
of  last  week's  shock,  he  was  secretly  perturbed.  In 
spite  of  himself,  he  began  to  see,  as  though  by  camera 
obscura,  dim  visions  of  the  past;  he  was  righteously 
annoyed  that  they  should  rise  to  torment  him,  and  still 
the  visions  came. 

"  But  after  all  that  you've  been  through,"  she  said, 
*'  I  should  think  your  thoughts  about  yourself  would 
be  extremely  interesting !  " 

"  I'm  afraid  they're  rather  gloomy,  Miss  Durant, 
whenever  they  touch  on  what  I've  been  through.  And 
when  anything  like  this  gathering  here  today  builds  up 
a  comparison.  .  .  .  I'm  sorry,  but  I  oan't  always  mas- 
ter it." 

"  You  mean  the  difference  between  a  family  over 
here  and  a  family  over  there  ^  " 

"  Exactly,"  he  said.  "  Down  to  the  last  detail  — 
what  we  eat,  and  where  we  live,  and  what  we  talk 
about,  and  what  we  think  about  —  everything." 

"  I've  thought  of  that,  too,"  she  said  soberly.  "  But 
I'll  have  to  confess  that  it  wasn't  until  you  came  —  it 
wasn't  until  after  that  first  night  at  Angela's  —  that 
the  great  difference  came  home  to  me.  It's  made  me 
feel  that  it's  almost  wrong  —  almost  unendurable  — 
that  we  should  be  so  warm  and  comfortable,  and  well- 
fed,  when  over  on  the  continent  .  .  .  well,  I  wonder 
whether  we  won't  have  to  pay  for  this,  sometime." 

Hilliard's  lips  came  together. 

"  Yes,  we  will.  We'll  pay  for  it  three  or  four  times 
over.     The  world's  on  a  big  balance  sheet,  and  the 


152  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

United  States  is  one  of  the  overdue  accounts.  We've 
got  an  extension  of  time  just  now,  but  a  reckoning's 
coming.  And  there's  no  use  shutting  our  eyes  to  it, 
because  it'll  come." 

"  But  don't  jou  think  some  good  is  coming  out  of 
the  war  in  the  end.'*  " 

His  answer  was  delayed,  and,  in  the  meantime,  silence 
had  run  around  the  table,  and  he  had  an  audience  of 
eight  instead  of  one. 

"  I  wish  I  could  answer  that  the  way  you  evidently 
want  me  to,  but  I'm  not  sure.  Let  me  explain.  In  the 
first  place,  the  mental  condition  of  every  one  who's 
been  in  this  war,  or  even  seen  it  from  near  by,  is  upside 
down.  Nothing's  normal,  nothing's  the  way  you're 
used  to  thinking  it  is.  The  whole  structure  of  living's 
changed.  All  the  values  are  different.  Human  life 
doesn't  mean  anything;  and  when  3'ou've  lost  that  as  a 
basis  of  value,  you  haven't  very  much  left.  If  you 
knew  how  men  are  handled  —  well,  it  sort  of  breaks 
up  your  faith  in  humanit3\  For  instance,  here's  a  de- 
tachment of  a  hundred  men  somewhere  near  the  front 
line  trenches,  and  there's  an  artillery  offensive  going 
on.  Those  hundred  men  don't  represent  a  hundred  sepa- 
rate personalities ;  nobody  thinks  of  them  as  personali- 
ties or  treats  them  like  personalities ;  they're  a  tactical 
unit  to  be  shunted  around  like  a  hundred  sand-bags  or 
a  hundred  shells  for  general  purposes.  They  don't 
exist  as  men;  they  exist  as  material.  They're  there 
to  act  as  a  bulwark  for  another  unit,  and  that  other 
unit  is  a  bulwark  for  still  another  unit,  and  so  on  clear 
back  to  the  people  who  eat  Sunday  dinners  in  peace, 
just  as  we're  doing  now.  .  .  . 

"  All  around  them  it  looks  and  sounds  as  though  the 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  153 

whole  universe  has  turned  into  a  mediaeval  conception 
of  hell,  and  then  suddenly  —  pouf !  and  a  hundred  men 
aren't  there  any  more !  And  it  isn't  that  so  many  per- 
sonalities have  been  eliminated;  it  isn't  that  perhaps  a 
thousand  other  people  back  home  are  going  to  be  af- 
fected all  the  rest  of  their  lives ;  it  isn't  that  the  suffer- 
ings of  the  whole  lot  of  them  is  even  going  to  be  con- 
sidered ;  it's  just  a  matter  of  so  much  war-material  gone. 
It's  a  loss,  but  it's  a  loss  that's  figured  almost  in  terms 
of  merchandise.  Casualties  are  casualties,  and  they  go 
down  on  a  daily  report,  and  the  statisticians  work  over 
them  just  as  though  they  were  figures  of  crops,  or  steam- 
ship tonnage,  and  that's  where  the  thing  ends!  You 
can  think  yourself  crazy  about  it ;  and  a  lot  of  men  do. 
Where  does  the  individual  belong?  What  does  he  count 
for?  What's  the  standard,  when  a  good  sand-bag  is 
worth  any  two  men  in  the  line?  An  American  minister 
I  met  over  there  said  that  the  most  frightful  thing  about 
it  isn't  that  we're  fighting  this  sort  of  war,  or  that  such 
things  happen,  but  that  we've  got  ourselves  into  such  a 
state  that  we  have  to  fight  it !  And  it's  because  we  are 
in  such  a  state  that  I  have  my  doubts  about  the  future. 
If  Germany  could  start  this  war  .  .  .  why,  some  day 
there  might  be  another  one.  The  world  isn't  as  far 
advanced  as  we  thought  it  was.  And  I  can't  see  how 
any  good  can  ever  come  out  of  anything  so  terribly 
futile.  I  can't  see  how  we're  ever  going  to  get  a  nor- 
mal perspective.  Because  all  this  fearfulncss  isn't  go- 
ing to  prove  anything,  except  to  demonstrate  which 
side  has  its  stronger  resources.  It  can't  establish  any- 
thing but  the  facts  as  to  which  side  has  the  more  food, 
or  fuel,  or  credit.  And  when  we  can  risk  the  whole 
world  for  that  — " 


154  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

*'  Pardon  me,  sir !  "  This  was  the  venerable  clergy- 
man on  the  other  side  of  Mrs.  Durant.  "  Don't  you 
acknowledge  any  moral  benefits  to  come  out  of  tliis  war?  " 

"  No,  sir,"  said  HiHiard  bluntly,  "  I  don't !  " 

"You're  not  a  pacifist,  are  you?"  demanded  Arm- 
strong, nervously  chewing  his  moustache. 

"  Hardly !  "  Hilliard's  vehemence  was  checked  as 
soon  as  he  perceived  that  the  question  wasn't  intended 
to  affront  him.  "  But  as  long  as  the  moral  question 
has  come  up,  I  don't  mind  saying  that  one  point  that's 
always  troubled  me  is  this ;  every  nation  in  this  war 
is  praying  to  the  same  God.  Nobody'll  admit,  of 
course,  that  there's  more  than  one  to  pray  to.  All 
the  nations  in  it  profess  to  be  Christian.  Now  I'm 
not  here  to  get  into  any  theological  discussion,  but 
what  I  want  to  know  is  how  we're  going  to  reconcile 
some  of  our  old  creeds  if  Germany  wins  ?  " 

"  But  Germany  won't  win!  "  Armstrong,  who  had 
said  this,  explosively  pounded  the  table  for  emphasis. 

"  That,"  said  HilHard,  "  is  what  I  hope  just  as  much 
as  you  do,  and  probably  more,  because  I've  seen  enough 
to  realize  what  it  would  mean  ;  but  I  want  to  tell  you 
here  and  now  that  unless  Germany  is  going  to  win, 
she's  got  to  be  opposed  by  all  the  rest  of  civilization. 
The  United  States  has  got  to  get  into  it,  too.  As  the 
situation  stands  today  the  Allies  are  beaten  to  a  stand- 
still. You  don't  believe  that  —  partly  because  you 
don't  want  to  believe  it  and  partly  because  you  aren't 
convinced  of  what's  evident  to  Italy  and  France  and 
England,  and  has  been  for  months.  But  it's  the  truth 
—  and,  to  go  back  to  the  main  issue,  and  supposing  that 
Germany  wins  — " 

"  There's  always  the  possibility,"  said  the  clergyman, 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  165 

"  of  a  nation  —  even  Germany  —  awakening  after  vic- 
tory to  a  comprehension  of  the  wrong  it  had  — " 

"  But  you  can't  find  any  precedents  in  history,  sir  1 
The  winner  always  gets  more  imperialistic  and  the 
loser  always  sulks  and  waits  for  revenge.  That's  why 
I'm  afraid  that  this  isn't  the  last  war  —  nor  the  worst. 
And  I  can't  believe  that  this  war  is  anything  but  futile, 
or  can  be  unless,  when  it's  over,  we  all  get  together  and 
change  the  whole  social  and  political  scheme  of  the 
world  from  the  ground  up.  And  so  far,  that  hasn't 
even  been  discussed.  All  that's  been  done  is  to  make 
after-the-war  plans  on  the  same  old  theories  of  govern- 
ment. You  people  over  here  don't  know  what's  com- 
ing —  maybe  after  the  war,  and  maybe  before  it's  fin- 
ished. But  I  want  to  tell  you  as  forcibly  as  I  can  that 
the  only  really  fundamental  changes  in  sight  —  so  far 
—  are  going  to  make  more  trouble  than  ever.  And 
bring  on  a  war  ten  times  as  big  as  this  is,  because  it 
won't  be  simply  international,  it'll  be  universal." 

"What  are  those  changes,  Mr.  Milliard.? "  The 
clergyman  was  mildly  tolerant. 

"  There's  going  to  be  a  step  backward  instead  of  a 
step  forward.  We're  going  to  have  the  old  conflict 
between  church  and  state,  instead  of  between  nations. 
That  is,  unless  the  United  States  joins  the  Allies." 

The  resultant  silence  was  electrical.  The  Doctor 
broke  it  forcibly. 

"  Mr.  Hilliard  —  if  that  were  anything  like  a  fact  — " 

"  It  is  a  fact,  Dr.  Durant.  I've  just  told  you  that 
you're  not  getting  the  sort  of  information  that  would 
help  you  to  understand  what's  really  happening  over 
there.  Trivial  gains  and  losses  on  the  military  side; 
rows  in  the  ministries  —  that  isn't  a  circumstance  to  the 


156  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

things  that  aren't  passed  by  the  censor.  In  France, 
the  church  as  a  political  organization  threatens  to  be 
more  of  a  menace  to  the  future  of  the  world  than  — " 

**  Mr.  Hilliard !  "  The  clergyman  was  apoplectic. 
"  I  can't,  I  simply  can't  allow  you  to  imply  — " 

"  It  isn't  an  implication,  sir,  it's  a  direct  statement. 
The  church  in  France  aims  eventually  to  dominate 
the  civil  government,  and  take  control  again.  It  would 
have  its  members  recognize  the  church  today  as  superior 
to  the  state.  Presumably,  to  prevent  war."  Hilliard 
was  growing  dynamic.  "  The  Bishop  of  Nantes  has 
preached  sermons  about  it  already.  And  I  understand 
that  Russia  and  Italy  are  wavering  about  it  too  —  and 
if  the  church  does  get  what  it  wants,  there'll  be  a  Ger- 
man victory  now,  and  another  big  war  later  —  unless 
we  get  together  for  the  future,  and  America  comes  in 
to  help.  And  that  doesn't  mean  simply  getting  to- 
gether for  more  militarism.  It  means  a  community  of 
aims ;  it  means  that  the  church  will  realize  its  position 
and  withdraw.  It  means  that  America  will  write  the 
peace  terms,  and  that  they'll  be  final.  I  believe  in 
fighting  it  out  to  the  finish,  but  always  with  a  definite 
aim ;  and  that  aim  would  be  to  prevent  any  one  man, 
or  any  body  of  men,  in  any  civilized  country,  from  ever 
again  having  the  power  to  start  a  war  like  this." 

"  I  should  imagine,"  said  the  clergyman  dryly,  "  that 
the  supremacy  of  the  church  might  be  a  very  good 
thing,  then." 

"  Oh,  but  the  church  never  prevented  any  war  in 
history  from  starting,  did  it.?  Understand,  I'm  not 
doubting  their  motives  over  there;  the  church  simply 
wants  the  war  to  stop.  And  if  it  stops  now,  it'll  be 
a  tremendous  disaster  for  all  of  us.     We  need  a  new 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  157 

basis  to  live  on,  and  unfortunately  the  very  nature  of 
the  church  keeps  it  from  being  progressive.  It  has  to 
be  conservative;  that's  the  strength  of  its  foundation. 
That's  why  I  want  the  United  States  to  get  into  it  — 
to  bring  new  energy  to  bear.  That'll  save  the  whole 
situation.  Then  I  can  see  where  good  will  come  out  of 
it!'^ 

Carol  touched  his  sleeve. 

"  Can't  you  see  any  bright  spots  ?  " 

"  Why,  the  first  thing,"  he  said,  "  is  to  conquer  Ger- 
many. After  that,  we've  got  to  conquer  ourselves,  or 
nothing's  gained.  I'm  not  sure  that  we'll  do  the  first, 
unless  something  happens  to  give  the  Allies  more  power, 
or  unless  America  joins  in.  But  please  don't  call  me  a 
pacifist,  or  a  socialist  either.  I'm  not.  I'm  a  pro- 
war,  anti-Prussian  repubhcan.  Only  I  want  to  see  the 
'purpose  in  this  fight ;  and  a  blind  victory  is  as  good  as 
nothing.  I  want  to  see  a  common  purpose  that'll  make 
victory  seem  only  like  a  single  step  in  advance.  And 
that  means  that  the  church  mustn't  be  allowed  to  stop 
the  war  until  a>^'ve  had  time  to  join  in." 

The  clergyman  was  profoundly  distressed. 

"  You  speak  of  the  church  as  though  it  were  a  serious 
drawback  to  civilization,  sir !  " 

"  I  speak  of  the  church  as  an  organization  which 
couldn't  prevent  the  war.  Therefore,  I  object  to  hav- 
ing it  bring  about  a  peace  which  would  leave  us  worse 
off  than  before.  In  this  particular  case,  the  '  cloth  '  is 
pretty  much  like  a  wet-blanket.  What  I  hope  is  that 
we'll  go  ahead  and  complete  this  job,  always  with  the 
idea  of  reorganizing  afterwards  on  principles  which  will 
leave  the  church  where  it  belongs,  once  and  for  all." 

"  You  have  a  strong  contempt  for  religion,  Mr.  Hil- 
liard." 


158  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

"  Not  for  religion  —  but  for  church  politics.  And 
I  have  that ;  and  I'm  not  ashamed  of  it.  Religion  can'f 
have  politics ;  and  as  soon  as  the  church  recognizes  that 
it's  got  to  let  politics  alone,  and  let  events  take  their 
natural  course,  the  sooner  we  can  begin  to  build  defi- 
nitely for  the  future.  And  that  brings  rae  back  to  the 
starting  point.  All  these  nations  at  war  are  supposedly 
Christian.  But  the  war  itself  isn't  a  Christian  war, 
is  it?" 

"  On  the  side  of  the  Allies,  it  is,"  said  Armstrong. 

"But  that  isn't  reasonable  either,  Mr.  Armstrong! 
That's  exactl}^  what  the  Prussians  say  about  themselves. 
I  believe  that  they  believe  it  too.  Think  of  the  German 
battle-slogans !  Well,  now,  are  you  going  to  claim  that 
God  has  been  naturalized  in  any  one  country?  Are  you 
going  to  admit  that  He  approves  of  what's  happened 
to  Poland?  And  Belgium?  And  Armenia  and  Syria? 
Or  are  you  going  to  concede  that  He's  a  Lutheran?  " 

"  It  seems  to  me,"  said  the  clergyman,  much  agitated, 
"  that  we  must  believe  that  out  of  it  there'll  come  a 
great  good  to  all  the  nations  —  the  regeneration  of  man- 
kind by  trial  — " 

"  Could  any  soldier,"  interposed  Dr.  Durant,  "  go 
through  the  trials  of  these  present  campaigns,  and  come 
out  of  them  spiritually  unaffected?  " 

"  Why,  no." 

"Affected  in  what  way  —  better  or  worse?  Spirit- 
ually, I  mean." 

"  Why,  better." 

"  In  spite  of  his  own  part  in  it?  " 

"  Surely." 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  159 

"  Well,  then,"  said  the  Doctor,  "  isn't  that  answer 
enough?     What  is  mankind,  Mr.  Milliard?     Isn't  it  the 
sum  total  of  all  the  individuals?     And  I  don't  care  who 
the  man  is,  or  what  his  nationahty  is,  I  can't  believe  that 
any  one,  after  tliis  thing  is  over,  and  the  reaction  has 
set  in,  won't  be  a  better  man  than  he  used  to  be,  no  mat- 
ter how  he  conducted  himself  personally  during  the  war. 
The  war  itself  —  that's  barbarous.     You've  got  to  con- 
sider it  all  by  itself.     But  Christian  people  can  —  and 
do  — fight  over  un-Christian   things.     Still,   the  indi- 
vidual who   comes  out  of  it  —  he's  going  to  be  finer, 
and  stronger,  and  more  valuable  to  himself  and  to  his 
country.     It's  inevitable;  socially,  morally,  politically 
—  whether  the  plan  is  made  in  advance,  or  whether  the 
change  comes  spontaneously.     Total  all  the  nations 
and  there's  your  ultimate  good;  and  when  that  time 
comes,  there  won't  be  any  struggle  between  church  and 
state,  because  right-minded  men  will  pay  allegiance  to 
both.     And  neither  one  of  them  will  try  to  undermine 
the  other,  because  they'll  have  learned  that  they're  in- 
separable.    This  agitation  you  speak  of  isn't  a  menace ; 
it's  a  promise.     It  shows  the  beginnings  of  exactly  what 
you  say  you  haven't  seen  —  a  determination  to  remould 
the  world  on  better  lines.     It's  a  trifle  untimely,  and 
that's  the  worst  we  ought  to  say  about  it." 
Hilliard  felt  the  blood  rising  in  his  cheeks. 
«  Well,"  he  said,  "  I  certainly  hope  you're  right." 
"  How  else  can  it  be?  "     Dr.  Durant  was  deeply  seri- 
ous.    "Look  at  the   one  example  we  have  before   us 
now  —  Dicky  Morgan.     His  own  viewpoint  of  life  was 
transformed   almost   in   an  hour.     His   manliness,  his 
courage,  his  devotion  —  all  the  best  qualities  in  him 
came  to  the  surface,  and  stayed  there,  as  soon  as  he 


160  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

knew  the  ideals  he  had  to  fight  for.  What  would  he 
have  done  —  how  would  he  have  guided  the  rest  of  his 
life,  having  learned  all  that  he  had  learned  —  if  he  had 
lived?" 

The  question  was  unexpected  and  there  was  a  moment 
of  painful  silence;  Mrs.  Durant  came  to  the  rescue 
with  a  piously  immaterial  rejoinder;  the  conversation 
picked  up  again,  and  flowed  away  in  less  philosophical 
channels.  Hilliard,  however,  remained  mute;  Carol 
whispered  aside  to  him. 

"  I  told  you  they  were  worth  more  than  a  penny,'* 
she  said. 

Stj-uggle  as  he  would,  he  couldn't  retain  his  protective 
shield  of  rancour  and  resentment;  he  felt  it  slipping 
incontinently  away  from  him,  and  as  it  slipped,  his 
loneliness  increased  a  hundredfold. 

"  I'll  grant  that  they  are  now,"  he  said,  under  his 
breath,  "  because  I'm  thinking  about  you."  He  saw 
Armstrong,  who  had  unfortunately  overheard  him,  look 
up  sharply,  and  he  hated  Armstrong,  who  was  at  least 
sincere. 

«  About  me,  Mr.  Hilliard?  " 

"  No  one  else."  To  his  own  amazement,  he  said  this 
headily ;  his  heart  had  taken  over  the  dominant  control 
of  his  tongue. 

"  Can  you  tell  me  about  it  ?  "  Ever;y  word  she  spoke, 
every  gesture  she  made,  every  tiny  mannerism  of  hers, 
all  at  once  possessed  its  former  power  to  thrill  him.  A 
magnetic  current  began  to  flow  between  Carol's  eyes 
and  his ;  he  was  conscious  of  resisting  it,  and  resisting 
fruitlessly.     His  nerves  tingled. 

"  That  depends." 

"I  —  I  suppose  I'm  to  ask  what  it  depends  on?  " 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  161 

**  I'd  be  bitterly  disappointed  if  you  didn't.  Miss 
Durant,  how  old  do  you  imagine  I  am?  " 

She  smiled  a  trifle  constrainedly. 

"  That's  always  an  embarrassing  question.  Besides, 
you  haven't  given  me  any  clue  how  you'd  like  to  have  it 
answered." 

"  I  want  your  honest  opinion." 

"  Thirty?  "  she  guessed.     "  Thirty-one?  " 

HilHard  drew  a  deep  breath. 

"  That's  very  flattering,  but  it's  also  rather  a 
damper,  Miss  Durant." 

*' Truly?" 

"  Because,"  he  said,  "  if  you'd  guessed  forty,  I  would 
have  gone  ahead  quite  brazenly,  but  —  well,  thirty  and 
forty  have  to  speak  to  twenty-two  in  entirely  diff'erent 
languages." 

"  If  it'll  help  you  out  at  all,"  she  said,  frankly, 
"  I'm  twenty-four." 

He  caught  Armstrong's  eye,  and  rejoiced  at  Arm- 
strong's patent  wrath. 

"  Then  I'll  be  brazen,"  he  said. 

It  was  at  tliis  juncture  that  Mrs.  Durant  rose;  and 
Hilliard,  with  keen  foresight,  and  with  full  knowledge 
of  Armstrong's  restlessness,  cannily  guided  Carol  after 
her  mother  into  the  living-room,  made  for  a  familiar 
piece  of  furniture,  and  pre-empted  it ;  it  would  seat  two 
people,  and  no  more  —  there  wasn't  the  slightest  use  in 
Armstrong's  loitering  disconsolately  in  the  neighbour- 
hood; it  had  a  maximum  capacity  of  two.  Further- 
more, it  was  removed  by  several  feet  from  the  nearest 
listening  post. 

He  was  so  close  to  her  that  their  sleeves  touched ;  he 
looked  into  the  beautiful  eyes  which  were  so  clear,  so 


16.^  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

unsuspecting;  and  his  will  swayed  perilously.  Had  he 
prepared  so  long  and  savagely  for  his  requital,  only  to 
lose  his  impetus  at  almost  the  first  glance  of  those 
brown  eyes?  He  reflected  that  there  was  nothing  to 
prevent  him  from  being  a  good  salesman,  and  from  re- 
newing his  predilection  for  Carol  at  the  same  time.  The 
idea  of  courting  her  again,  in  his  false  character,  was 
highly  dramatic  .   .  . 

"  If  you  had  tliought  me  older,"  he  said,  "  and,  mind 
you,  I  haven't  confirmed  your  guess,  I  could  have  put 
this  very  differently.  And  if  you  had  thought  me 
older,  you'd  probably  take  it  differently.  You  see, 
there  are  so  many  things  I  want  to  say  to  you,  and  our 
time's  so  limited,  and  Mr.  Armstrong  over  there  is  so 
unhappy.  .  .  .  But  first,  I  want  to  tell  you  how  very 
much  it  has  meant  to  me  to  know  you,  even  in  this  super- 
ficial way." 

"There's  no  age  in  that,  Mr.  Hilliard!"  She 
smiled  at  Angela  and  young  Waring  in  the  corner. 

"  No,  but  I  haven't  finished.  You  see,  I  came  up 
here  to  Syracuse  on  a  definite  errand."  He  paused 
briefly.  "  And  ...  I  can't  feel  that  it  would  be  quite 
fitting  of  me  to  use  this  occasion  for  anything  personal 
to  myself.  If  I  should  do  that,  I  should  feel  as  though 
I  had  committed  a  breach  of  trust."  He  loathed  him- 
self, but  above  all,  he  must  maintain  his  reputation. 

"  You're  —  conscientious,"  she  said.  *'  I  should 
have  known  that." 

"Would  you,  really.?" 

"  Any  one  would  know  it." 

"  That's  the  greatest  compliment  you  could  give  me." 
He  was  the  victim  of  strange,  unrelated  impulses. 
"  But  —  I  do  want  to  come  here  to  see  you  again." 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  163 

*'  I  shall  always  be  glad  to  have  you,"  she  said,  and 
her  voice  was  low,  almost  inaudible. 

"  Mr.  Cullen  has  asked  me  to  be  his  guest  for  a  few 
more  days.  I'm  hesitating."  His  throat  was  dry, 
arid ;  the  lie  was  choking  him,  and  yet  he  was  compelled, 
for  the  sake  of  consistence,  to  utter  it.  "  If  I  accept, 
it'll  be  because  I  count  on  seeing  more  of  you.  So  it 
rests  largely  with  you  whether  I  stay  in  town  or  not." 

She  looked  at  him  searchingly. 

"  What  can  I  possibly  have  to  do  with  it.'^  "  she  asked, 
gently. 

"  I  know  you  won't  misunderstand  me,"  he  said,  his 
heart  shaking,  "  and  I  hope  that  you  won't  consider  it 
as  too  presumptuous  —  but  —  the  other  day  you  spoke 
of  Dicky  Morgan  as  a  very  dear  friend  of  yours.  Miss 
Durant,  I  want  to  do  everything  in  the  world  I  can  for 
you,  and  he  was  my  dear  friend  as  well  as  yours.  I'm 
not  disloyal  to  him,  or  to  you,  or  to  myself  —  but  I 
should  like  more  than  I  can  ever  tell  you  to  feel  that  I 
had  done  my  utmost  to  take  his  place.  No  one  can  do 
that  literally  —  I  am  not  so  vain  —  but  if  I  could 
give  you  the  slightest  pleasure,  the  slightest  consola- 
tion, by  staying  here,  I  intend  to  stay  —  and  somehow 
I  feel,  and  I  have  felt  from  the  time  we  met  each  other, 
Dicky  would  have  wanted  us  to  be  friends."  There 
was  a  tremble  in  his  voice  as  he  ended.  "  The  reason  I 
mentioned  my  age  ...  why,  I  didn't  want  you  to  mis- 
understand, that's  all.  ...  I  wanted  you  to  know  that 
I'm  old  enough  to  see  things  as  a  younger  man  can^i 
see  them  ;  to  act  as  a  younger  man  canH  act ;  to  — " 

"  That's  —  that's  wonderfully  thoughtful  of  you," 
said  Carol,  softly.  "  And  .  .  .  and  I  think  he  would 
have    wanted    that  ...  if    he'd    known.  .  .  ."     Her 


164  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

eyes  were  suspiciously  dim,  and  Hilliard's  loneliness  dis- 
solved into  a  great  spasm  of  longing  which  held  him, 
and  shook  him,  and  left  him  weak  with  impotence. 

"  Then  I'll  stay,"  he  said  abruptly.  *'  Provided  — 
provided  you  won't  be  offended  if  I  do  have  to  want  to 
know  you  for  yourself  —  just  a  little  selfishly.  I'm 
afraid  that  isn't  very  clear  —  it's  difficult  to  separate 
it  —  but  you  see  — " 

'*  Don't  try  to  explain,"  she  said,  subdued.  "  I 
know  how  hard  all  this  must  be  for  you  —  and  I  think 
perhaps  you  need  my  friendship  as  much  as  I  need 
yours." 

Before  he  could  reply,  there  was  a  flutter  of  indescrib- 
able gracefulness  before  them:  Angela  was  courtesying 
in  mock  obeisance  to  the  floor.  Behind  her.  Waring  was 
watching  her  possessively. 

"  If  your  majesties  will  wake  up  half  a  second,"  she 
said,  "  everybody's  going  to  walk  up  around  the  Sedg- 
wick Farm  tract  to  get  some  fresh  air.     Coming?  " 

As  they  stood  up  together,  drenched  with  regret  for 
the  confidences  that  might  for  ever  remain  unsaid,  a 
maid  appeared  in  the  doorway. 

"  Please,  ma'am,"  she  said  breathlessly,  **  it's  the 
Western  Union  —  for  Mr.  Hilliard." 

"  Right  in  my  study,"  called  the  Doctor,  hurrying. 
"  Just  across  the  hall.  There  you  are ! "  And  ush- 
ered him  into  the  sanctum,  and  considerately  closed  the 
door. 

Despite  the  urgent  summons  which  the  average  person 
feels  under  such  circumstances,  Hilliard  was  astonish- 
ingly tardy  in  sitting  down  to  the  receiver.  For  one 
thing,  he  was  still  vibrating  from  his  recent  stress  of 
passion ;  for  another,  he  knew  pretty  certainly  what  the 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  165 

message  was  going  to  be,  and  for  a  third,  he  was  some- 
what emotionally  under  the  spell  of  the  Doctor's  room. 
It  was  a  room  he  had  always  loved ;  it  had  strong  char- 
acter about  it ;  its  rows  and  rows  of  books  were  human- 
ized by  tobacco  smoke.  Hilliard  had  spent  a  hundred 
hours  in  it  —  pleasant  hours,  so  that  involuntarily 
yielding  to  its  kindly  atmosphere,  and  all  that  the 
atmosphere  implied,  he  took  time  to  survey  all  four  walls 
before  he  took  up  the  receiver.  And  after  he  had 
listened  to  the  telegram,  and  ordered  a  copy  mailed  to 
him  in  care  of  Mr,  CuUen,  he  took  time  to  survey  those 
walls  again,  more  closely ;  and  this  was  partly  for  their 
intrinsic  significance,  and  partly  because  his  feelings 
were  so  fresh  and  tender  that  he  dreaded  to  return  at 
once  to  the  gathering  which,  as  a  whole,  couldn't  be  ex- 
pected to  defer  to  them.  His  eyes  fell  upon  the  Doc- 
tor's desk,  wandered  and  suddenly  focussed  hard  and 
piercingly.  He  went  over  to  the  desk,  and  slowly  put 
out  his  hand,  and  lifted  up  a  small  photograph  in  a 
met^^l  frame. 

"Well,  I'll  be  darned!"  said  Hilliard,  just  above  a 
whisper.  The  turning  of  the  door-knob  roused  him ;  he 
wheeled  with  the  photograph  still  in  his  hand. 

"  Hello !  "  said  Dr.  Durant,  cheerfully.  "  Get  your 
message  all  right.''  What's  that  you've  found .'^  Oh, 
yes  —  Dick's  picture." 

Hilliard  swallowed  hard,  and  found  that  his  voice  was 
queerly  out  of  control. 

"  It's  —  it's  the  same  one  — " 

"  Yes  —  it's  the  same  as  the  one  you  brought  back. 
I've  had  it  there  ever  since  he  gave  it  to  me." 

He  took  it  gently  from  Hilliard's  hand;  replaced  it 
on  the  desk.     "  How  that  boy  would  have  made  good  if 


166  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

he  had  lived ! "  said  the  Doctor,  in  an  undertone. 
**  Well  —  they're  waiting  for  us.  .  .  .  But  I  do  hope 
you  can  find  time  to  come  in  and  have  a  quiet  hour  with 
me  some  evening  soon,  Mr.  Hilliard.  I  think  we  can 
understand  each  other  very  easily." 

Hilliard,  following  him  outside,  encountered  the  two 
Cullens  in  the  hall,  and  at  sight  of  his  florid  host,  he 
collected  his  wits,  and  resumed  his  part  in  the  play. 

"Oh!"  he  said.  "  I  —  I  ~  that  was  from  one — 
that  was  a  telegram  from  the  manager  of  the  syndicate, 
Mr.  Cullen ;  he  said  it's  decided  not  to  tr}^  to  re-syndi- 
cate any  stock,  but  to  hold  it  ourselves  for  the  long 
pull  —  everything's  put  off  for  three  or  four  weeks  any- 
way. I'm  having  a  copy  mailed  to  the  house  —  there's 
some  news  in  it  I  thought  you  might  like  to  see." 

"Good!  That  leaves  you  free,  doesn't  it?  You'll 
stay  on  with  us  then?     Don't  say  no.     I  insist  on  it!  " 

"  No,  I  couldn't  do  that !  It's  awfully  kind  of  you, 
but—" 

"  You  talk  to  him,  Angela !  "  laughed  Mr.  Cullen. 
"  You  make  him  stay.  You've  got  more  influence  over 
him  than  I  have,  anyhow.  And  don't  you  dare  to  let 
him  get  away  without  a  promise  —  understand?  "  He 
passed  on,  and  left  them  together.  Angela's  arm  was 
through  Hilliard's,  and  her  piquant  little  face  was  up- 
turned in  mimic  ferocity. 

"  You  walk  along  with  me,  sir ! "  said  Angela,  im- 
perially. "  And  you'd  better  behave  yourself  —  I'm 
fierce !  " 

At  the  same  moment  that  he  looked  yearningly 
towards  Carol,  who  up  ahead  by  the  doonvay  was  al- 
ready captive  to  the  wily  Armstrong,  young  Rufus 
Waring    was    glaring    belligerently^    towards    Hilliard. 


> 

o 


\ 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  167 

The  masquerader  smiled  in  defeat,  then  smiled  with 
sudden  realization  of  the  woman-child  clinging  to  him. 
His  heart  was  so  malleable,  just  then,  that  he  could 
aknost  have  loved  the  whole  world  —  and  so  it  was  that 
he  gave  expression  of  his  mood  to  Angela,  who  was  the 
nearest  to  share  it.  He  squeezed  her  arm  out  of  sheer 
affection. 

"  Your  gallant  cavalier'U  cover  me  with  horrid  w^elts 
and  bruises  for  this ! "  he  said  warningly.  "  Don't 
make  him  jealous,  now !  "  They  were  now  bringing  up 
the  rear  of  the  procession  in  the  hallway. 

"  I'll  make  'em  well  again,"  said  Angela.  "  I  am  a 
good  nurse,  aren't  I.^  " 

He  was  convulsed  by  her  air  of  conquest. 

"By  the  old-fashioned  method?"  He  could  hardly 
believe  that  this  was  the  girl  he  had  taught  to  climb 
trees,  and  make  slingshots. 

"I'll—"  She  stopped  and  blushed.  The  others 
were  all  on  the  steps ;  these  two  were  in  the  dusky  vesti- 
bule.    Waring  was  fretting  impatiently  outside. 

"  Would  you?  "  asked  Hilliard.  He  intended  only  to 
tease  her ;  but  all  at  once  her  head  came  up,  and  he 
could  see  that  her  eyes  were  big  and  soft  and  frightened. 
She  was  hardly  seventeen,  and  to  Hilliard  she  had 
never  ceased  to  be  the  child  of  two  years  ago.  He  bent 
and  kissed  her ;  her  lips  were  trembling,  expressive. 

"  Now  we've  got  to  hurry,"  he  said.     "  Come,  dear!  " 

It  was  the  tone  he  would  naturally  use  to  a  child,  but 
he  had  an  uneasy  feehng  that  he  had  used  it  to  a 
woman.     Children's  lips  aren't  expressive. 

And  he  had  another  intuition  —  still  more  upsetting 
to  him  —  which  was  that  he  had  been  observed.  For 
on  the  threshold  of  the  outer  door  Carol  and  Armstrong 


168  THE  ]\1AN  NOBODY  KNEW 

and  Rufus  Waring,  as  though  turned  back  to  inquire 
into  the  cause  of  Milliard's  and  Angela's  delay,  were 
standing.   .  .  . 

He  could  not  tell,  of  course,  whether  they  had  actually 
seen  him.  It  was  possible  that  in  the  dusk  of  the  hall- 
way he  had  escaped ;  certainly  there  was  nothing  in  the 
manner  of  any  one  of  the  three,  when  Hilliard  joined 
them,  to  convince  him  one  way  or  the  other.  But  he 
knew  that  he  was  in  a  critical  situation;  he  knew  that 
to  any  reasonable  person  who  had  seen  him  at  that 
spontaneous  little  outburst  of  sentiment,  his  motives 
wouldn't  appear  to  be  very  opaque. 

No,  the  manner  of  those  three  who  had  stood  on  the 
threshold  was  astonishingly  casual.  Perhaps  too 
casual.  .  .  .  Hilliard  frowned,  and  tried  to  glimpse 
their  various  expressions.  Ah!  Waring,  striding 
stiltedly  ahead,  had  thunderclouds  on  his  forehead,  and 
as  for  Carol  .  .  . 

She  turned  to  speak  to  Armstrong,  and  Hilliard  knew. 

For  the  remainder  of  the  first  stage  of  that  walk,  he 
spoke  not  a  word  to  Angela,  who  trudged  along  by  his 
side  with  God  knows  what  tumults  in  her  bosom.  He 
thought  not  of  Angela,  nor  concerned  himself  with  the 
storm  he  had  stirred  within  her.  He  was  absorbed 
solely  with  the  puzzle  which  lay  before  him,  which  was  to 
detach  Carol  as  soon  as  possible,  and  to  explain  himself. 
Otherwise,  his  reputation  w^as  ashes  even  now. 

And,  to  his  unbounded  joy,  the  opportunity  came 
soon  —  at  the  end  of  the  road,  where  the  party  halted 
for  a  moment,  to  take  a  referendum  as  to  the  route. 
Armstrong  strayed  a  yard  or  two  too  far.  and  on  the 
instant  Hilliard  was  at  Carol's  elbow.     She  said  noth- 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  169 

ing,  nor  did  he;  but  when  the  march  was  resumed,  he 
was  beside  her  —  and  beating  his  brains  for  an  introduc- 
tory remark.  He  had  to  convince  her  he  had  been 
trifling  with  neither  herself  nor  Angela,  and  he  walked 
a  good  furlong  before  he  could  devise  so  much  as  an 
opening  sentence.     At  length  he  cleared  his  throat. 

"  I've  just  decided,"  he  said,  "  that  I'm  growing  old, 
no  matter  what  your  estimate  is." 

"  Yes  ?  "  She  was  immeasurably  sweet  and  distant, 
and  Hilliard's  courage  faltered. 

"  I  have  indeed." 

They  went  half  a  block  in  silence.  Ahead  of  them 
Armstrong,  who  was  walking  with  Angela  now,  was 
turning  his  head  at  frequent  intervals. 

"  How  does  one  come  to  that  decision,  Mr.  Hilliard?  " 

"  In  various  ways,"  he  said.  "  But  primarily  by 
the  attitude  of  younger  people." 

"  Oh !  "     Her  tone  wasn't  reassuring. 

"  I've  made  a  most  touching  discovery.  .  .  ,  Do  1 
look  grandfatherly,  Miss  Durant.^  " 

"  No ;  I'd  hardly  say  that." 

He  made  a  gesture  of  gratitude.  "  You've  earned 
my  permanent  thanks.  And  you're  consistent,  too;  I 
was  afraid  that  when  you  guessed  I'm  only  thirty  you 
were  being  intentionally  flattering.  But  I  am  growing 
old.  How  do  I  know.''  Didn't  you  ever  read  Leigh 
Hunt?" 

"  Just  a  little."  There  was  a  trace  of  warmth  creep- 
ing into  her  voice.     Hilliard  held  his  breath  : 

"Say  I'm  weary,  say  I'm  sad; 

Say  that  health  and  wealth  have  missed  me; 
Say  I'm  growing  old,  but  add  — 
Angela  kissed  me !  " 


170  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

He  had  spoken  the  lines  magnificently,  with  the  pre- 
cise humour  and  pathos  which  go  to  make  them  im- 
mortal. "  I'm  glad  she  fits  into  the  meter,"  he  said 
thoughtfully,  "because  I  can  understand  just  how 
Leigh  Hunt  felt  about  Jennie." 

"  And  —  how  do  you  think  that  was?  " 

"  Very  sensitive,"  said  Hilliard,  "  and  perhaps  a  little 
repressed  and  —  decrepit."  He  smiled  reminiscentl}'. 
"  I  suppose  there  are  very  few  things  in  life  that  make 
a  man  feel  more  mindful  of  his  own  crudity  and  general 
worthlessness  than  to  have  a  child's  spontaneous  affec- 
tion." It  was  the  testing  venture.  She  looked  at  him 
sidewise. 

"  More  than  if  —  if  it  weren't  a  child?  " 

"  I  think  so."  His  tone  was  faultless.  *'  It's  the 
combination  of  beautiful  innocence  and  beautiful  ig- 
norance —  which  aren't  always  synonyms,  j\Iiss  Du- 
rant.  A  woman  can  make  a  man  feel  like  Romeo,  but 
it  takes  a  very  j^oung  girl  to  make  him  feel  like  Launce- 
lot  —  at  m}^  age." 

"  She  is  adorable,  isn't  she?  "  His  heart  jumped  at 
her  cordial  acceptance  of  his  statement.  *'  Only  — 
she's  seventeen,  Mr.  HilHard." 

"  I  know,"  he  said  gravely.  "  And  that's  why  I'm 
so  conscious  of  my  own  senility.  Because  all  that  beau- 
tiful innocence  and  ignorance  is  doomed.  Miss  Durant  — 
who  knows  that  I'm  not  the  very  last  person  to  see  it? 
Today,  I'm  only  a  much  older  man,  some  one  she  likes ; 
tomorrow,  I  may  be  a  man  without  the  *  only,'  and  the 
more  she  liked  me,  the  less  she'd  show  it.  But  there's 
been  mighty  little  of  that  sort  of  thing  for  me  in  the 
last  few  years  from  anybody,  and  I  do  appreciate  it,  and 
I'm  not  ashamed  of  it,  either." 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  171 

"  No,"  she  said,  "  you  couldn't  be.  You're  too  hu- 
man." She  smiled  at  him,  and  he  was  transported  at 
the  proof  of  her  sympathy.  "  If  I  were  in  your  place, 
I'd  want  to  feel  the  same  way  about  it." 

He  thanked  her  in  his  heart.  He  had  saved  both 
Angela  and  himself,  and  held  his  pristine  advantage. 

But  there  was  no  disputing  the  fact  that  he  had  made 
an  active  enemy  out  of  Waring,  and  an  alert  rival  out 
of  Armstrong.  He  smiled  grimly  as  he  looked  at  the 
man  ahead. 

"  Mr.  Armstrong  seems  to  be  very  nervous,"  he  said. 

"Does  he?     I  haven't  noticed  it." 

"  Not  that  I  can  blame  him  for  wanting  to  be  in  my 
place.     On  the  contrary,  I'm  sorry  for  him." 

"  That  shows  a  very  good  disposition,"  she  said 
demurely. 

"  Perhaps  it  does,  and  perhaps  it  doesn't.  I  believe 
every  man  owes  it  to  himself  to  get  what  he  wants.  If 
he  does,  he's  a  success ;  if  he  doesn't  —  it's  his  own 
fault." 

As  he  said  this,  they  came  abreast  of  the  others,  and 
Armstrong,  who  had  heard  the  final  sentence,  whirled 
toward  Hilliard. 

"  Regardless  of  methods  ?  "  he  demanded. 

"  Why  —  to  some  extent,"  laughed  Hilliard.  "  Why 
not?" 

Armstrong  delayed,  so  that  the  two  men  were  a  few 
paces  behind  the  rest  of  the  group.  "  I'm  interested  to 
know  just  how  far  you'd  carry  that  theory." 

"  As  far  as  Syracuse,  at  any  rate." 

"Is  that  your  regular  creed,  Mr.  Hilliard?" 

"  My  creed  isn't  composed  of  words,  Mr.  Armstrong, 
but  of  actions." 


172  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

They  had  spoken  so  quietly  that  no  one  perceiving 
them  would  have  remotely  suspected  that  a  challenge 
had  been  offered  and  accepted. 

"  Actions  do  speak  louder,  of  course." 

"  Mine,"  said  Hilliard,  "  will  give  you  no  offence. 
But  —  I  generally  get  what  I  want." 

"So  do  I.  Shall  we  shake  hands  on  it?"  Arm- 
strong was  very  affable,  but  tremendously  in  earnest. 

"  With  pleasure.  I  can  count  on  your  generosity, 
I  see." 

"  And  I  on  your  courtesy." 

^*  Thank  you.  He  went  complacently  forward ;  but 
inwardly  he  was  steeped  in  perturbation.  The  man 
was  so  deadly  sure  of  himself.  Could  it  be  that  he  was 
tacitly  engaged  to  Carol,  in  spite  of  what  Angela  had 
surmised,  or  so  nearly  on  the  road  to  an  understanding 
with  her  that  Hilliard  was  only  making  a  fool  of  him- 
self.? 

Armstrong  laughed  gently.  It  was  like  a  dagger 
thrust  in  Hilliard's  heart. 


XIII 

MR.  RUFUS  BRISSENDEN  WARING  (he  was 
especially  fond  of  the  ham  in  that  sandwich)  oc- 
cupied, during  business  hours  in  the  summer  months, 
the  smallest  cubicle  of  the  largest  suite  in  the  White 
Memorial  building.  Mr.  Rufus  Brissenden  Waring 
was  fond  of  legal  words  and  technical  expressions ;  he 
would  have  told  you  quite  naturally  that  he  was  an 
alumnus  in  Arts  of  Colgate  University  of  the  Class  of 
1914 ;  and  he  would  also  have  said  that  he  had  matricu- 
lated at  Syracuse  University,  in  the  College  of  Law, 
last  autumn,  and  that  he  was  pursuing  the  prescribed 
course  leading  to  the  degree  of  L.L.B.  His  ambition, 
then,  was  to  become  an  attorney  and  counsellor-at-law, 
master  in  chancery,  and  member  of  the  New  York  bar. 
He  was  exactly  twenty-one  years  old;  a  youthful 
prodigy,  and  not  entirely  unconscious  of  it.  At  present 
(to  explain  his  connection  with  the  White  Memorial 
building)  he  was  serving  during  the  long  vacation,  as 
the  youngest  clerk  in  a  very  successful  law  firm,  with 
nothing  but  the  office-boy  between  himself  and  oblivion. 
To  judge  from  his  attitude  and  from  his  ignorance 
that  a  man  was  laughing  at  him  from  the  doorway,  he 
was  engaged  in  matters  of  the  last  importance.  Be- 
fore him  on  the  scarred  desk,  a  score  of  calf-bound 
volumes,  ranged  in  toppling  piles,  awaited  his  atten- 
tion. Here  and  there,  other  books  were  propped  open, 
ready  to  hand;  on  the  side  of  the  desk,  a  thick  pad  of 
yellow  scratch  paper  was  placed  conveniently.     Young 

173 


174.  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

Mr.  Waring,  his  pencil  gripped  firmly,  sat  in  rapt  con- 
centration on  the  brink  of  his  swivel  chair,  studying 
cases.  The  month  was  August;  Mr.  Waring  was  deli- 
quescent from  the  heat.  Now  and  then,  as  his  intellect 
swooped  down  upon  some  unprotected  fact,  he  scrawled 
a  note  on  the  topmost  of  the  yellow  sheets ;  scrawled  it 
without  taking  his  eyes  from  the  printed  page ;  detached 
the  sheet,  and  added  it  to  the  heap  of  similar  notes  be- 
side his  blotter.  They  were  cabalistic  memoranda,  but 
they  seemed  to  be  highly  inspirational,  for  young  Mr. 
Waring's  eyes  gleamed  wherever  he  caught  one. 

Pittsburg  Mining  Co.  vs,  Spooner  74  Wis.  307. 

Veiser  vs.  U.  S.  Board  &  Paper  Co.  107  Fed.  Rep.  34.0. 

Lomita  vs.  Robinson  154  Cal.  36. 

The  man  in  the  doorway  grinned  more  broadly. 

**Busy,  Rufe?" 

Mr.  Rufus  Brissenden  Waring  fairly  bounded  from 
surprise. 

"  Oh !  —  Jack !  "  He  exhaled  mightily  in  relief. 
"  You  scared  the  daylight  out  of  me !     Come  on  in." 

"  Had  to  see  your  boss  a  minute,"  said  Armstrong. 
"  Just  thought  I'd  stop  and  pass  the  time  of  day  with 
you.     But  if  you're  busy  — " 

"  Oh,  come  on  in."  He  removed  the  books  from  a 
second  chair.  *'  I  want  to  talk  to  you  anyway."  He 
went  to  the  door  and  closed  it.  "  I  was  going  to  tele- 
phone over  to  you  tonight.  But  as  long  as  you're 
here  — " 

"  Something  very  hush?  "  asked  Armstrong,  amused. 

"  'RsL-ther!  "  Young  Mr.  Waring  sat  down  hard. 
"  Look  here,  Jack,  what's  your  private  opinion  about 
this  man  Hilliard?  " 

"  It's  a  broad  question,  counsellor." 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  175 

"  Well,  go  ahead  and  answer  it." 

Armstrong  regarded  him  quizzically. 

"Any  ulterior  motive?" 

"  You  said  something !  Please  answer  me,  Jack. 
This  is  serious." 

Armstrong  stopped  grinning. 

"  Excuse  me,  Rufe ;  I  didn't  know.  Why,  I  think 
he's  a  mighty  pleasant,  affable  sort  of  a  person  —  and 
a  wonderfully  good  mixer.  Everybody  in  town  seems 
to  like  him  very  much." 

Waring  leaned  back;  pressed  the  tips  of  his  fingers 
together;  frowned  judicially. 

"  All  right ;  proceed." 

"Isn't  that  enough?" 

"  No ;  make  it  explicit.     Go  into  details." 

*'  Well  —  he's  extremely  generous  and  — " 

"  Sure?  "  snapped  Waring. 

"  Well,  he  gave  a  thousand  dollars  to  the  Red  Cross, 
and—" 

"Honest?     That's  news  to  me." 

"  He  did  it  just  the  same.  And  he's  promised  to 
contribute  again  if  we  can't  make  up  the  quota.  And 
he's  given  a  lot  to  the  other  war  funds,  too.  He's  got 
bales  of  money.     He  — " 

"Sure  he's  got  bales  of  it?  Any  proof?"  No 
member  of  the  Appellate  Division  could  have  been  more 
critical  of  the  evidence. 

"  He  must  have,  Rufe.  Since  he  went  down  to  the 
Onondaga,  it's  costing  him  a  tremendous  pile  to  live, 
and  he's  given  away  such  a  lot  besides,  and  he's  bought 
a  car  —  you  ought  to  have  seen  the  way  he  bought  it ! 
Carol  and.  I  were  with  him.  He  went  into  the  Franklin 
place  and  took  a  roadster  with  about  as  much  fuss  as 


176  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

I'd  make  buying  a  cigar.  Just  wrote  out  a  check  and  it 
was  all  over.  People  who  haven't  money  don't  do  busi- 
ness that  way ! " 

"  Humph !     How  much  do  you  think  he's  got?  '* 

Armstrong  began  to  be  really  attentive. 

"  What's  on  your  mind,  Rufe?  " 

*'  I'll  tell  you  later ;  answer  the  question." 

Armstrong's   native   conservatism  made  him   pause. 

"  Why,  I'd  judge  he's  living  at  the  rate  of  twenty- 
five  thousand  a  year  at  the  minimum.  And  he's  retired, 
too ;  so  I  should  say  he'd  need  half  a  million  or  so  to 
keep  up  that  gait." 

"  All  right ;  how  old  do  you  think  he  is  ?  " 

"  Why  —  thirty-seven  or  eight.  What's  all  this 
about,  anyway  ?  " 

"  Humph !  What  do  you  think  he's  hanging  around 
Syracuse  for?  " 

Armstrong  reddened. 

"  Why,  he  says  he  likes  it.  He  hasn't  any  home  — 
maybe  he'll  settle  down  here.  I  know  he's  looked  at 
some  real  estate  up  by  the  Sedgwick  Farm  tract." 

"  So  this  is  about  the  way  you  size  him  up  —  rich, 
retired,  nothing  to  do,  generous,  affable,  popular,  char- 
itable and  hanging  around  Syracuse  because  he  likes  it. 
That  about  right?" 

"Pretty  nearly.     Why?" 

Waring  inhaled  powerfully. 

"  Remember  that  Sunday  we  had  dinner  at  Carol's 
house?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Ever  since  that  day,"  said  Waring,  also  growing 
red,  "  I  haven't  liked  that  man.  I  —  well,  never  mind, 
but  I've  got  a  darned  good  reason  not  to.     And  you 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  177 

know  how  it  is,  Jack  —  when  you've  got  good  and  suf- 
ficient grounds  for  not  liking  a  man,  you  sort  of  take 
that  as  presumptive  evidence  that  he's  got  other  defects 
you  don't  know  anything  about.  And  —  I  don't  like 
him.  And  I  said  something  to  Angela  about  it,  and  we 
had  a  —  a  misunderstanding.  She's  crazy  about  him. 
Perfectly  crazy.  And  she  was  pretty  much  upset,  or 
she  probably  wouldn't  have  let  this  out,  to  judge  from 
what  she  said  afterwards,  but  it  seems  that  this  man 
HilHard  has  been  talking  to  her  father  about  some  of 
his  mining  schemes  —  and  Cullen's  going  to  put  up 
some  money.     And  I  don't  like  the  looks  of  it." 

"  What !  "     Armstrong  was  no  longer  quizzical. 

"  Angela  said  so.  She  said  it's  an  underwriting 
scheme.  She  said  Hilliard's  going  to  make  her  father  a 
multi-millionaire  or  some  rot  like  that.  Now  of  course 
it  may  be  all  right.  Jack,  but  I  don't  like  it.  If  this 
man  Hilliard  has  such  bales  of  money,  what's  he  picking 
up  small  change  from  Mr.  Cullen  for?  And  if  his 
scheme's  any  good,  why  doesn't  he  take  it  to  New  York, 
where  money's  raised  for  big  deals  .^^  " 

"You're  excited,  Rufe!" 

"  Sure  I  am !  Here's  this  man  coming  into  town,  and 
going  to  church,  and  batting  around  with  all  the  differ- 
ent crowds,  and  shelling  out  contributions  to  charity, 
and  acting  like  a  bloated  bondholder  —  and  then  collect- 
ing money  from  Mr.  Cullen.  Angela  hinted  it  was 
thirty  thousand.     And  — " 

"  But  Rufe !  You  haven't  any  cause  to  imagine  it 
isn't  straight  business.  He's  under  obligations  to  Mr. 
Cullen ;  why  wouldri't  he  let  him  in  on  a  good  thing,  if 
he  had  one?  And  if  Hilliard  had  any  idea  of  getting 
anything  from  Cullen  dishonourably,  wouldn't  he  have 


178  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

stayed  on  as  their  guest?  Wouldn't  he  have  used  every 
last  hold  on  Cullen  he  could  get?  I  happen  to  know 
that  he  wouldn't  think  of  it.  You're  all  stewed  up  be- 
cause Angela  — " 

"  Well,  I'll  have  to  give  him  credit  for  that  much," 
conceded  Waring.  "  Going  down  to  live  at  the  Onon- 
daga when  he  could  have  sponged  on  l:he  CuUens  —  and 
I've  only  got  my  private  opinion  anyway,  Jack,  and 
nothing  to  back  it  up  with.  But  you  know  when  you 
once  get  a  suspicion  —  and  3'ou  and  I  are  pretty  much 
in  the  same  boat  — " 

"  How  do  you  mean?  "  demanded  Armstrong  quickly. 

"  You  aren't  deaf  and  dumb  and  blind,  are  you?  " 

"  No,  Rufe  —  not  by  a  mile." 

"  Well  —  Carol  and  Angela.  He's  after  one  or  the 
other  of  'em,  and  I  don't  know  which.  Neither  does  any- 
body else.  That's  why  I  thought  I'd  like  to  have  this 
conference  with  you.  We're  in  the  same  boat.  So 
I've  been  getting  up  the  law  on  promoters." 

Armstrong,  stirred  more  by  the  reference  to  Carol 
than  by  his  young  friend's  suspicions,  put  out  a  calm- 
ing hand. 

"  Rufus,  you're  much  too  excited.  Let's  start  fresh 
from  the  beginning.  Henry  Hilliard  had  a  good  reason 
for  coming  up  here,  didn't  he  ?  And  a  mighty  friendly 
reason, too." 

"  Yes,  I'll  have  to  concur  in  that." 

"  And  you  can't  blame  hi.n  for  having  the  Cullens 
like  him,  can  you  ?  " 

«  No-o." 

"  And  everybody's  been  pretty  nice  to  him,  haven't 
they?" 

"  Why,  I'd  say  so." 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  179 

"  Any  reason  why  he  shouldn't  stay  here  if  he  enjoys 
it?  " 

"  Well  — '' 

"  So  all  you're  rioting  about  is  his  letting  Mr.  Cullen 
in  on  a  business  deal?  " 

"  If  he  — " 

"  And  you'd  never  think  twice  about  it  if  it  weren't 
for    some   misunderstanding   of   yours    with    Angela." 

"  Well,  even  if  I  waive  — " 

"  And  so  you're  suspicious  of  all  his  best  qualities ! " 
Armstrong  laughed  kindly.  "  Why,  Rufe,  there's  noth- 
ing to  be  disturbed  about !  The  one  thing  you  do  have 
to  keep  in  mind  is  this:  it  doesn't  do  the  least  good  in 
the  world  to  despise  your  —  er  —  your  enemies.  You 
never  know  what  they're  thinking  about  you.  The  best 
way  to  handle  it  is  to  remember  that  the  other  fellow  is 
probably  just  as  much  fussed  up  about  it  as  you  are, 
and  maybe  more.  And  you  haven't  anything  to  worry 
about,  anyway." 

"  Why  haven't  I  ?  "  asked  Waring,  doggedly. 

"  Because  I  have." 

The  embryo  attorney  and  counsellor-at-law  (master 
in  chancery  and  member  of  the  New  York  bar)  looked 
feelingly  at  his  heap  of  miscellaneous  notes. 

"  I'm  not  telling  all  I  know,  Jack  —  not  even  to  you. 
But  I  think  you're  wrong.  I  —  I've  got  some  evi* 
dence  .  .  .  only  I  can't  figure  out  what  it  means." 

"  Circumstantial?  " 

**  No ;  direct.  Evidence  of  my  own  eyesight.  It's 
conclusive."  Armstrong  brightened,  remembered  that 
he  was  between  two  fires,  and  sobered  instantly. 

"  But  let's  give  Hilliard  the  benefits  of  all  the  doubts 
there  are —     You  know,  Rufe,  one  of  the  platitudes 


180  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

that  makes  me  maddest  is  that  old  one  about  everything 
being  fair  in  love  and  war  —  it's  so  untruthful.  Fair- 
ness is  fairness,  no  matter  where  you  find  it.  Look  at 
this  war,  and  see  what's  come  of  that  platitude !  Let's 
you  and  I  be  fair  to  ourselves,  and  him  too.  I've  been 
playing  square  with  him  for  a  good  many  weeks,  and  I 
like  him  better  all  the  time.  He's  a  good  sort  —  really. 
Let's  give  him  the  benefit  of  all  the  doubts.  Bar- 
gain?" 

Waring  sighed  dispiritedly. 

"  Oh,  I  suppose  that's  the  way  it  would  look  to  a 
reasonable  man  —  I'm  not  reasonable  about  it,  some- 
how." 

Armstrong  rose,  and  put  out  his  hand. 

"  There's  enough  real  trouble  in  the  world  without 
any  one  trying  to  dig  up  any  more,  Rufe,"  he  said. 
"  Cheer  up  !  And  —  don't  let  this  weigh  on  you.  Just 
pull  yourself  together  and  forget  it.     Will  you  ?  " 

"  I'll  do  the  best  I  can,  Jack." 

The  law-student  watched  his  older  friend  out  of  the 
door,  and  turned  back  to  his  disordered  desk.  He 
picked  up  the  last  sheet  of  his  notes,  relinquished  it, 
selected  an  intermediate  sheet  and  read  slowly :  *'  Veiser 
vs.  U.  S.  Board  and  Paper  Co.  107  Fed.  Rep.  340.  The 
promoter  of  a  company  stands  in  the  relation  of  a  trus- 
tee to  it,  and  to  those  who  became  subscribers  to  its 
stock,  as  long  as  he  retains  the  power  of  control  over  it." 
He  replaced  the  memorandum  in  its  proper  order,  and 
reflected  profoundly. 

"  If  it  isn't  a  corporation,  it's  a  partnership,"  said 
Waring,  "  and  if  it  isn't  a  partnership,  he's  acting  as 
an  individual.  Any  way  you  look  at  it  he's  personally 
responsible.     And — "     He  thought  judicially  of  what 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  181 

Armstrong  had  said  to  him.  "  Oh,  well,"  said  Waring, 
dropping  into  his  chair.  "  I  guess  it  won't  do  me  any 
harm  to  know  the  law,  anyway  ! '" 

He  propped  another  book  open  and  began  to  con- 
centrate. 


XIV 


IT  had  been  a  difficult  problem  for  Hilliard,  a  difficult 
and  an  exhausting  problem,  and  although  he  had 
often  solved  it  to  his  satisfaction,  it  possessed  the  irri- 
tating quality  of  refusing  to  stay  solved.  Once  or  twice 
each  day  he  was  compelled  to  attack  it  anew,  to  lock 
and  grapple  with  it  and  master  it ;  and  after  each  bout, 
which  came  invariabl}^  to  the  same  result,  he  dismissed 
the  problem  from  his  calculations,  and  deluded  himself 
into  arguing  that  it  was  never  to  return.  And  just  as 
often  as  he  considered  that  it  was  expelled  for  ever,  it 
somehow  gathered  up  its  dissipated  strength,  and 
crawled  indomitably  back  to  lock  with  him  again. 

For  thirty  days  he  had  listened  to  the  eulogies  of  his 
secret  self.  He  had  heard  from  a  hundred  sources  the 
same  belief  repeated,  that  Dicky  Morgan,  given  time 
and  counsel,  would  have  made  the  city  as  proud  of  him 
for  his  intrinsic  worth  as  it  now  was  proud  of  him  for 
his  mihtary  valour.  This  praise  of  Dicky  Morgan  had 
at  first  stunned  Hilliard ;  after  that,  it  had  exalted  him ; 
still  later,  it  had  abrased  his  soul.  He  had  longed, 
ceaselessly,  during  that  third  period  of  his  introspec- 
tion, to  take  the  city  to  his  heart,  to  reveal  himself,  to 
answer  for  Dicky  Morgan's  faikires  and  to  pledge  him- 
self anew  to  the  achievement  which  Dicky  Morgan's 
friends  had  prophesied ;  and  then  he  had  been  over- 
whelmed by  the  recollection  that  he  had  made  this 
course  impossible.  He  had  established  himself  too 
strongly ;  there  was  no  defending  the  glamour  he  had 

182 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  183 

spread  so  thickly  over  the  name  of  Dicky  Morgan ; 
there  was  no  explaining  the  myriad  of  deceits  which 
went  to  make  up  the  entity  called  Hilliard.  If  he  had 
only  known  that  all  his  deceptions  were  needless!  If 
he  had  only  known  that  Dicky  Morgan  could  have  come 
home,  and  been  forgiven !  What  anguish  he  could 
have  saved  —  and  what  repentance !  And  the  problem 
was  still  the  same  —  should  he  continue,  safe  in  his 
masquerade,  to  the  goal  he  had  set  for  himself,  or  should 
he  risk  the  worst,  and  salve  his  conscience  by  renuncia- 
tion ? 

But  as  it  was,  he  was  curiously  thrilled  by  the  new 
repute  which  was  slowly  attaching  to  him.  He  had  an 
unaccustomed  sense  of  civic  uprightness  quite  apart 
from  his  sense  of  shame  for  the  methods  which  had 
brought  it  about;  he  knew  that  he  was  looked  upon  as 
a  steady  churchman ;  that  he  was  supposed  to  be  a  lieu- 
tenant, if  not  actually  a  captain  of  important  industry ; 
that  his  democratic  instincts  were  marked  and  ap- 
plauded; that  he  passed  current  as  a  philanthropist  and 
a  plutocrat.  This  novel  reputation  was  wonderfully 
sweet  to  him;  he  cringed  to  think  what  a  storm  of  fury 
would  gather  against  him  if  he  should  lose,  voluntarily 
or  involuntarily,  the  position  he  had  gained,  and,  in 
assuming  his  proper  character,  take  with  it  the  censure 
for  having  hoodwinked  a  whole  community  by  a  scheme 
so  indefensible,  and  so  loaded  with  egotism.  Syracuse 
was  loud  in  its  praise  of  Dicky  IMorgan ;  and  Syracuse 
was  deeply  respectful  to  Henry  Hilliard ;  but  if  Syra- 
cuse ever  came  to  know  that  they  were  one  and  the  same 
person,  biographer  and  outcast,  the  career  of  both 
would  wither  and  die  in  the  burning  atmosphere  of  dis- 
grace. 


184.  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

He  had  never  felt  so  sinful  as  he  did  now ;  and  he 
had  never  been  so  proud  in  all  his  life.  And  it  was  pride 
which  chiefly  governed  him,  and  he  was  proud,  not  of 
anything  he  had  accomplished  materially,  but  of  what 
he  had  accomplished  spiritually ;  he  was  proud  of  the 
personality  with  which  he  was  credited,  and  which  he  had 
hot  originally  possessed,  but  which  was  slowly  moulding 
itself  upon  him.  He  still  retained  the  inner  sensibili- 
ties of  Dicky  Morgan;  the  identity  of  Hilliard  was  a 
thing  apart,  a  deliberate  creation,  a  piece  of  handi- 
vrork  —  real  and  alive,  and  yet  subliminal,  detached. 
He  fiercely  admired  that  shell  of  mystery  which  was 
Hilliard ;  he  —  with  the  perceptivity  of  Dicky  Morgan 
—  was  devoted,  and  more  than  devoted,  to  the  ideal 
he  had  dragged  out  of  the  abyss  of  failure.  He  fairly 
worshipped  Hilliard ;  worshipped  him  for  the  fictitious 
qualities  which  made  him  respected  by  others.  Regard- 
ing Hilliard  in  the  mirror,  he  was  himself  held  spellbound 
by  those  features  which  fascinated  men  and  won)e.n  alike ; 
he  was  almost  fanatical  in  his  gratitude  to  the  surgeons 
who  had  fashioned  them. 

And  he  was  fiercely  proud  of  Hilliard's  very  modesty, 
and  repression,  and  kindness  —  he  gloried  in  these  at- 
tributes which,  at  first,  were  merely  assumed  as  part  of 
his  disguise.  He  gave  away  Hilliard's  mone}^  to  char- 
ity, not  with  any  qualm  for  the  premeditated  strata- 
gem, but  with  quickening  pleasure  in  Hilliard's  ready 
generosity.  Sometimes,  at  odd  moments,  he  was  struck 
by  the  realization  of  his  own  uplifting  —  that  he  could 
still  admire  the  virtue  of  his  apparent  self,  and  still 
comprehend  that  it  was  the  virtue  and  not  the  deception 
that  he  admired. 

And  then,  little  by  little,  he  had  seemed  to  feel  the 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  185 

soul  of  Dicky  Morgan  merging  with  the  body  of  Henry 
Hilliard,  so  that  what  he  did,  and  what  he  said,  was 
no  longer  deception,  but  the  true  expression  of  his  char- 
acter; he  was  aware  that  now  and  then  he  thought  of 
the  two  persons  as  one  —  and  the  one  was  Hilliard.  At 
this  point,  his  pride  was  higher  and  his  guilt  was  less  — 
and  then  the  problem  darted  out  from  ambush,  to  be 
wrestled  with  and  mastered  all  over  again.  For  it  was 
indisputable  that  if  he  chose  to  be  actively  sincere,  he 
should  have  to  betray  himself,  and  that  if  he  didn't,  he 
could  never  expect  to  sleep  peacefully  of  nights  —  and 
his  varying  motives  were  most  woefully  intertwined. 

By  far  the  most  distressing  factor  in  this  puzzle  was 
his  relationship  to  Carol  Durant.  He  had  seen  her 
only  half  a  dozen  times  during  the  month,  and  never 
alone  —  the  fates  and  Armstrong  had  circumvented  him 
—  but  he  was  head  over  heels  in  love  with  her  again, 
and  he  sensed,  from  fugitive  glances  and  a  stray  word 
or  two  on  her  part,  that  she  wasn't  entirely  averse  to 
him.  Not  that  she  was  yet  committed  to  solid  friend- 
ship, but  she  was  holding  him  in  suspense.  In  time, 
there  might  be  a  ray  of  hope  .  .  .  and  he  should  enjoy 
the  delirious  ecstasy  of  courting  her  again,  with  no  past 
derelictions  to  account  for.  That  is  —  provided  the 
problem  would  somehow  stay  solved.  But  what  would 
Carol  think  if  she  knew  that  this  grave  and  tender 
stranger  was  hiding  behind  the  wraith  of  Dicky  Mor- 
gan? And  yet,  after  thirty  days  of  falsity  on  falsity, 
how  could  he  admit  his  identity.?  If  she  had  truly  been 
in  love  with  Dicky  Morgan  —  it  was  a  thousand  times 
the  worse !  If  she  were  ever  truly  in  love  with  Henry 
Hilliard,  it  was  impossible ! 

And  then  there  was  little  Angela  Cullen  — 


186  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

And  in  addition,  there  was  the  serious  business  of 
making  good ;  he  was  no  longer  impelled  to  it  bj  resent- 
ment, but  rather  by  unadulterated  ambition;  this,  too, 
he  would  see  destroyed  by  any  admission  of  his  deceit. 
To  continue  in  the  game  was  to  lose  his  probity;  to 
relinquish  it  was  to  lose  all  else;  and  even  now,  his 
joy  and  pride  was  contained  in  precisely  those  things 
which  he  must  give  up,  if  he  decided  to  tear  off  the 
mask  of  hypocrisy ;  and  his  self-respect  was  rising  out  of 
the  mud  of  what  he  never  should  have  done  at  all. 

When  he  thought  of  his  worldly  ambitions,  he  was 
profoundly  regretful  that  he  had  talked  professionally 
with  Mr.  CuUen.  To  be  sure,  the  matter  had  come  up 
casually  and  naturally,  and  the  opening  had  seemed  too 
good  to  be  missed;  at  the  same  time,  Hilliard  couldn't 
help  reflecting  that  it  had  been  premature.  Diplomacy 
required  that  he  display  no  element  of  haste,  no  trace 
of  eagerness  to  launch  his  stock  campaign ;  he  was  now 
compelled,  by  what  had  gone  before,  to  put  Mr.  Cullen 
off,  to  whet  his  appetite,  to  play  him  carefully,  and  wait 
for  the  precise  moment  when  one  timely  victory  would 
pave  the  way  for  others.  It  might  prove,  eventually,  to 
have  been  exactly  the  proper  course  to  produce  results ; 
it  might  be  that  Cullen  would  become  so  impatient  that 
he  couldn't  be  restrained,  and  would  leap  without  look- 
ing, and  leap  further  than  he  intended,  and  j^et,  ever 
since  that  preliminary  interview,  Hilliard  had  known 
that  he  had  made  a  breach  in  his  own  fortresses ;  that  he 
had  rendered  it  possible  for  an  informal  (and  logical 
enough)  investigation  to  begin,  or  for  mild  suspicion  to 
arise  and  gain  momentum  before  he  had  devised  the 
means  of  combating  It.  He  knew  that  in  all  prudence 
he  should  have  delayed  for  at  least  another  month  any 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  187 

reference  to  his  business  affiliations ;  and  then  the  story 
should  have  gone  out  shyly,  and  by  degrees ;  and  become 
assimilated  with  equal  slowness  ;  it  should  first  have  been 
nourished  by  strangers,  and  aftei'wards  adopted  and 
supported  by  its  foster  parents ;  a  rumour  with  no  defi- 
nite origin.  And  although  Hilliard  believed  implicitly 
in  the  goods  he  had  to  sell,  he  knew  the  difficulty  of  the 
market;  he  knew  how  timorous  is  the  average  investor; 
and  he  knew  that  there  might  very  easily  come  a  time 
at  which  his  long  harangue  would  be  remembered,  and 
remembered  adversely. 

In  this  connection,  he  was  irritated  by  the  tone  of 
Harmon's  letters  to  him  from  New  York.  Harmon  was 
enthusiastic,  and  confident ;  he  was  relying  sturdily  on 
Hilliard  to  break  through  the  acumen  of  the  up-state 
capitalists;  but  he  thought  that  Hilliard  was  making 
haste  too  slowly ;  he  opined  that  all  Hilliard  needed  to 
do  was  to  devote  himself  to  a  hard  onslaught  against 
Mr.  Cullen,  and,  after  that,  to  gather  subscribers  where 
he  chose.  He  said  that  Hilliard  was  wasting  time,  and 
ought  to  begin  to  collect  signatures.  Harmon  mixed 
his  metaphors  badly,  but  his  meaning  was  ver}^  plain. 
"  They'll  follow  Cullen  like  a  flock  of  sheep,"  he  wrote, 
"  so  you  get  busy  on  the  decoy  duck.  And  don't  pass 
up  the  little  pitcher,  either."  Hilliard  had  mentioned, 
in  a  moment  of  indiscretion,  the  assistance  which  An- 
gela had  unconsciously  given  him,  and  Harmon  had  ap- 
praised it  highly ;  but  it  angered  him,  when  he  saw  this 
reference  written  down  in  Harmon's  letter,  to  have  her 
name  brought  into  the  instructions,  even  by  implica- 
tion.    Still  .  .  .  had  he  not  invited  this  upon  himself? 

It  was  in  a  dizzying  quandary,  then,  that  HDliard 
kept  his  next  appointment  at  the  Durants'.     The  prob- 


188  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

lem  had  grown  so  many  branches,  sent  forth  so  many 
tentacles  of  bewildering  confusion,  that  he  hardly  knew 
what  to  say,  where  to  turn.  There  was  apparently 
nothing  for  him  to  do  but  to  follow  his  selected  pro- 
cedure, and  yet  the  incessant  growth  of  barriers  in  the 
path  was  tripping  him  at  almost  every  stride.  His  one 
consolation  was  that  the  miracle  which  had  been  per- 
formed upon  him  had  given  him  a  mask  of  impenetrable 
calm.  At  least,  he  didn't  have  to  wear  his  forebodings 
on  his  countenance. 

And  yet,  almost  the  first  words  Carol  said  to  him 
were :     "  Something's  troubling  you,  Mr.  Hilliard." 

He  was  momentarily  demoralized,  and  came  near 
showing  it  —  tried  to  pass  it  off  with  a  laugh. 

"  Did  I  make  it  as  plain  as  all  that?  " 

"  No,"  she  said,  "  it  wasn't  plain  at  all." 

His  laugh  was  remarkably  hollow,  but  he  persisted  in 
it. 

"  Why,  how  did  you  think  of  it,  then.''  " 

"  Just  from  your  eyes,"  she  told  him.  "  What's  the 
matter?  Anything  I  could  help  straighten  out  for  you? 
Or  couldn't  I  listen?     That  helps  a  lot,  sometimes — " 

Hilliard  made  a  heroic  effort  to  fling  off  his  mood. 

"  It's  nothing  but  every-day  worries,"  he  said.  "  I'm 
sorry  I  made  it  so  apparent." 

She  looked  up  quickly ;  liis  symptoms  were  unmistak- 
able. And  the  lines  of  pain  around  his  mouth  and  on 
his  forehead  gave  him  an  expression  which  took  her 
breath  away, —  it  was  so  poignant  in  its  evidence  of 
suffering.  She  dropped  her  eyes,  and  the  colour  deep- 
ened in  her  cheeks. 

"Isn't  there  an3^thing  I  can  do?"  she  said.  "Or 
...  or  that  Father  could?     You  frighten  me.  .  .  ." 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  189 

"  I'm  sorry.  .  .  .  No,  please  don't  think  of  it.  I 
ought  to  be  shot  if  I've  made,  you  unhappy." 

The  bitterness  in  his  voice  was  acute;  and,  by  para- 
dox, it  was  caused  mainl}'  by  her  sweet  concern  for  him, 
and  his  realization  of  how  little  he  deserved  it. 

"  You  always  seem  to  be  pushing  the  world  away 
from  you,"  she  said,  after  a  pause.  "  Why  do  you, 
Mr.  Hilliard?  " 

"  I  didn't  know  that  I  do,"  he  said  dispiritedly. 
"  And  it  would  be  a  queer  thing  for  me  to  do  deliberately, 
when  I  want  your  friendship  more  than  an3^thing  else  I 
can  possibly  imagine  —  wouldn't  it  ?  " 

She  hesitated. 

"  I've  wanted  to  know  you  better,  too,"  she  said 
finally.  "  But  .  .  .  had  you  ever  noticed  that  we're 
always  talking  in  the  present  tense.  Often  I  feel  as 
though  I  don't  know  anything  about  you  at  all.  And 
people  never  can  be  more  than  chance  acquaintances 
until  they've  shared  some  of  the  life  they  had  before 
they  met  each  other." 

Hilliard  shuddered. 

"  It  may  be  because  there  are  so  many  things  in 
my  life  I  prefer  to  forget." 

"  Not  your  whole  life,  surely  ?  " 

"  Almost  my  whole  life,"  he  said,  without  wisdom. 
"  It  hasn't  been  so  happy  that  I  want  to  brag  about 
it.  .  .  .  And,  besides  that,  what  would  I  really  gain 
if  I  should  draw  the  curtain?  " 

"  But  a  woman,"  said  Carol  slowly,  "  almost  always 
has  to  be  a  confidante  before  she  becomes  a  friend.   .  .   ." 

They  sat  without  stirring  while  the  clock  ticked  off  a 
dozen  seconds.  Hilliard,  scarcely  knowing  what  he 
did  —  and,  if  he  knew,  indifferent  —  had  put  both  hands 


190  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

to  his  forehead,  as  though  to  calm  the  vicious  throbbing 
within. 

Presently,  and  so  quietly  that  he  never  heard  her, 
Carol  was  gone  —  she  had  slipped  across  the  room,  to 
the  piano.   ... 

A  breath  of  music,  light,  dreamy,  caressing.  .  .  . 

And  there,  on  the  sofa  where  Dicky  Morgan  had  sat, 
and  smoked,  and  taken  his  happiness  with  the  utmost 
nonchalance,  sat  Hilliard,  in  tensest  desperation  of 
soul,  strained  to  the  tenuous  melody  which  floated  across 
to  him, —  an  echo  of  youth  and  gladness  which  mocked 
him,  derided  him,  indicted  him  ...  a  translation  of 
the  unutterable  sadness  which  welled  up  in  his  throat 
and  choked  him.  .  .  .  She  was  playing  the  *'  Liebe- 
straum." 

His  shoulders  went  up  convulsively,  and  he  was 
chilled  to  the  heart.  Liebestraum!  It  was  a  taunt,  a 
savage  cynicism,  a  challenge  to  his  inward  self.  The 
waves  of  it  battered  his  unresisting  conscience;  the 
piercing  tenderness  of  it  damned  him,  while  it  awoke 
his  dormant  passion,  and  set  his  will  to  vibrating. 
Liebestraum  —  and  the  dream  of  his  love  was  a  phan- 
tasm which  his  brain  reeled  to  contemplate !  The  lump 
in  his  throat  came  near  to  strangling  him. 

The  music  was  painting  fairy  pictures  for  him  now 
...  he  could  see,  as  though  at  an  immense  distance, 
vignettes  of  platinum-shadowed  water  in  the  moonlight, 
graceful  branches  wavering  against  the  sky,  the  dark 
masses  of  rock  and  bush  at  the  lake  shore,  and  Carol 
.   .   .   always  Carol.   .  .   . 

Contrast  —  and  the  black  and  red  of  a  world  tor- 
tured by  bursts  of  hideous  flame  and  smoke.  .  .  .  Con- 
trast, and  the  dead  stillness  before  the  storm  .  .  .  and 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  191 

again  vignettes,  and  the  sound  of  tiny  waves  breaking 
upon  the  pebbles,  and  the  scent  of  the  summer  night  in 
his  nostrils.  .  .  . 

His  eyes  were  closed,  and  he  was  breathing  heavil3\ 
Liebestraum  —  after  all  these  years  !  She  was  playing 
for  him  again;  playing  as  he  had  forgotten  she  had 
played !  It  was  the  renewal  of  the  least  shameful  hours 
he  had  ever  known.  It  was  a  scene  from  the  life  he 
had  spurned,  and  spat  upon.  It  was  a  flight  to  yester- 
day, to  the  innocence  and  affection  which  had  withered 
in  the  heat  of  his  intended  vengeance.  She  had  always 
been  able  to  enthral  him,  when  she  liked;  and  she  had 
known  that  Liszt  was  as  strong  wine  to  his  soul.  The 
picture  —  the  picture !  Himself  —  and  Carol  .  .  . 
when  the  world  was  all  at  peace,  and  he  need  have  no 
loathing  for  him.self  because  he  loved  her.  The  familiar 
notes  could  almost  hurt  him  physically,  his  senses  were 
so  keenly  alert  to  the  lovely  melody.  .  .  .  And  all  at 
once,  while  Hilliard's  heart  stopped  beating,  the 
terminal  phrases,  questioning,  appealing,  agoniz- 
ing. ... 

It  seemed  to  Hilliard  that  hours  must  have  elapsed 
before  he  had  the  strength  to  rise,  and  cross  the  room. 
His  brain  was  buffeted  by  wildly  giddy  passions  ;  he  was 
only  partly  aware  that  Carol,  trying  to  rise  from  the 
bench,  was  wide-eyed  with  intuitive  apprehension.  Voli- 
tion had  gone  from  him ;  he  was  acting  without  reserve, 
without  premeditation. 

"  Tell  me !  "  he  said  thickly.  "  Have  I  got  a  chance.? 
One  in  a  hundred.?  One  in  a  thousand.?  But  a 
chance?  " 

"Oh!  .  .  .  Mr.  Hilliard!"  Her  plea  was  to  his 
chivalry,  and  had  to  be. 


192  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

"  Tell  me  .  .  .  Tcould  I  have  ...  if  I  should  share 
everything  you  — " 

One  hand  was  pressed  close  to  her  breast ;  the  other 
was  outstretched,  defensive. 

"Don't!     Dont!     Don't  spoil  what  was — " 

"  You'll  have  to  answer  me.  ...  I  can't  wait  any 
longer.  I'm  not  worth  your  little  finger  and  I  know 
it  .  .  .  but  I  want  a  chance  .  .  .  just  a  fighting  chance 
.   .   .  you've  got  to  answer  me,  Carol  .   .   ." 

She  was  trembling  within  reach  of  him,  but  it  never 
occurred  to  him  to  touch  her,  and  if  it  had,  he  would 
have  refrained,  out  of  sheer  consciousness  of  liis  lack 
of  right.  It  wasn't  the  present  moment  that  absorbed 
him  ;  it  was  the  potentiality-  of  the  future  —  the  course 
by  which  he  could  earn  the  privilege  that  he  asked. 
Plis  face,  working  tragically,  awed  her. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  hardly  above  a  whisper.  "  There's 
.  .  .  one  chance  in  a  thousand.  There's  .  .  .  that 
much,  anywa}'." 

His  arms  went  out  to  her  —  stayed  —  dropped.  He 
stepped  backwards,  out  of  the  danger  zone. 

"  Then  I'll  take  it,"  he  said. 

She  had  given  him  a  chance,  on  an  implied  condi- 
tion which  he  could  never  meet.  She  had  given  him  a 
chance  —  and  what  in  the  name  of  Heaven  could  he  do 
with  it.? 


XV 

FROM  the  marbled  dignity  of  the  Trust  and  De- 
posit Company,  where  he  had  bought  a  New  York 
draft  for  fifteen  thousand  dollars,  and  smaller  ones  for 
ten  and  seven,  Hilliard  emerged  presently  to  South 
Warren  Street,  and  stood  there  on  the  sidewalk  for  a 
moment,  numbed  by  the  first  galvanizing  consciousness 
of  success.  The  September  morning  was  clear  and 
fresh  and  brilliant ;  he  took  it  inclusively  to  himself,  and 
thrilled  not  less  to  the  world  around  him  than  to  the 
joyous  tumult  within  his  own  brain.  He  felt  a  sudden 
fraternity  towards  every  passer-by ;  he  was  infatuated 
by  every  aspect  of  the  city  which  had  once  rebuffed, 
then  welcomed  him. 

He  had  come  back  to  it  resolved  to  win,  in  his  second 
trial,  the  position  he  had  failed  to  approximate  in  his 
first;  he  had  set  himself  a  commercial  standard,  and, 
gauged  by  it,  he  was  advancing  rapidly,  for  today's 
trio  of  subscriptions,  added  to  Mr.  Cullen's  check  of 
yesterday  (and  Mr.  Cullen  had  acted  as  though  he  had 
gained  a  personal  victory  in  persuading  Hilliard  to 
accept  it),  made  up  a  glittering  total,  a  stupendous 
total ;  and  already  Hilliard's  earned  commissions  formed 
a  sum  to  gloat  about.  As  he  stood  there  on  the  side- 
walk, he  felt  that  inrushing  sense  of  dominant  power 
and  broad  authority  which  only  the  acquisition  of 
money,  by  individual  effort,  can  give ;  but  he  had  too,  a 
finer,  and  a  more  uphfting  thrill  of  triumph  than  money- 
success  can  ever  give  —  the  triumph  over  early  fail- 

193 


194  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

ures.  Despised  as  a  salesman,  he  had  sold  to  four  im- 
partial business  men  the  commodity  hardest  in  all  the 
world  to  sell.  Scorned  for  his  behaviour,  he  had  made 
his  sales  on  the  basis  of  a  character  which  hadn't  been 
questioned  since  the  day  of  his  arrival.  His  mind  and 
his  muscles  clamoured  alike  for  action;  to  relieve  the 
pressure  of  his  spirits,  he  set  off  vigorously,  swinging, 
exultant.  The  best  of  it,  as  he  assured  himself  over 
and  over  again,  was  that  he  had  sold  his  project  strictly 
on  its  merits  as  an  investment ;  the  cards  had  all  been 
on  the  table ;  he  had  nothing  in  this  transaction  to  re- 
gret. 

On  impulse,  he  crossed  the  street  for  the  purpose  of 
patronizing  a  florist's,  where,  ignoring  the  conventional 
measure  of  the  even  dozen,  he  ordered  a  prodigal  arm- 
ful of  American  Beauties  for  Carol  Durant.  This  done, 
and  feeling  very  rich  and  independent,  he  rounded  the 
righthand  corner,  and  got  himself  greeted  by  two 
citizens  of  standing  and  importance  who,  in  hailing 
him,  displayed  a  deference  not  ordinarily  granted  to 
the  average  resident  of  Hilliard's  age.  Would  Hilliard 
condescend  to  speak  at  the  next  meeting  and  dinner 
of  the  Chamber  of  Commerce  on  France  in  wartime.'* 
Hilliard  would.  And  this  indication  of  his  new-won 
status  fired  him  afresh;  he  was  exhilarated  beyond  his 
most  feverish  dreams  of  conquest ;  he  was  certain  now 
that  the  time  was  coming  when,  with  magnificent  achieve- 
ment and  an  impeccable  new  career  to  rely  upon,  he 
could  fling  aside  the  cloak  of  his  disguise,  and  mount 
the  pedestal  of  distinction  which  was  so  surely  build- 
ing for  him.  He  could  explain  his  acts  when  he  could 
also  extenuate  them;  was  it  not  possible  that  the  join- 
ing of  the  ways  was  near? 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  195 

And  then  a  dowager  from  the  Solvay  side  of  town 
beckoned  to  him  from  her  limousine,  and  held  him  for 
a  brief  discussion  of  the  financial  needs  of  the  Memorial 
Church;  and  after  that,  a  matron  from  the  most  ap- 
proved location  on  James  Street  waylaid  him  openly, 
and  demanded  him  for  dinner  on  the  coming  Friday. 
There  was  a  Senator,  she  said,  she  wanted  him  to  meet. 
Every  step  he  took  was  another  stride  towards  glory ; 
he  had  never  remotely  fancied  such  pride  and  satisfac- 
tion as  this ;  he  radiated  a  warmth  of  spirit  which  was 
irresistible.  There  was  none  of  Morgan's  weakness 
in  him  now,  none  of  Morgan's  wild  irresponsibility;  he 
was  Hilliard  —  with  only  one  thing  to  be  ashamed  of, 
and  that  was  simply  that  he  hadn't  been  born  Hilliard, 
instead  of  becoming  Hilliard  by  re-birth. 

And,  logically  enough,  his  swirling  thoughts  followed 
a  well-worn  trail  which  led  him  straight  to  Carol;  and 
for  the  thousandth  time  he  tried  to  set  a  future  date, 
depending  on  the  outcome  of  his  mission  here,  at  which 
he  could  confess,  and  ask  forgiveness  for  his  mummery, 
and  simultaneously  ask  credit  for  his  regeneration.  He 
was  at  least  on  even  terms  with  Armstrong;  perhaps 
a  pace  ahead;  and  when  Carol  once  knew.  .  .  .  The 
drama  of  it  intoxicated  him. 

At  this  juncture,  he  was  aware  that  some  one  had 
arrested  him.  It  was  Angela's  youthful  suitor,  who 
had  been  peering  enviously  at  the  gorgeous  haberdash- 
ery in  Goettel's  exclusive  window,  and  turned  away  just 
in  time  to  catch  Hilliard  by  the  sleeve. 

"Oh  — hello.  Waring  1"  said  HiUiard  cheerfully. 
"  How's  crime?  " 

The  student  of  law  flushed  at  the  lively  salutation, 
which  appealed  to  him  as  a  reflection  upon  the  majesty 


196  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

of  the  bar.  Also,  his  sense  of  humour  was  temporarily 
atrophied. 

"  We  don't  handle  criminal  cases,"  he  responded 
shortly.  "  Say,  when  can  you  and  I  have  a  conference 
together,  Mr.  Hilliard?" 

"  Why,  the  sooner  the  quicker,"  laughed  Hilliard. 
"What's  it  about?" 

Waring   coughed   unnecessarily.     "  Business." 

"  The  time  to  talk  about  business  is  all  the  time  — 
isn't  it?" 

Waring  hesitated,  and  finally  stepped  into  the  shelter 
of  Goettel's  doorway,  drawing  Hilliard  with  him. 

"  I  don't  suppose  it'll  seem  like  a  very  important 
thing  to  you,"  he  said,  rather  awkwardly,  "  but  it's 
important  enough  to  me,  Mr.  Hilliard,  to  be  worth 
taking  time  over  —  to  be  perfectly  frank  with  you,  I've 
got  five  hundred  dollars  I  want  to  put  in  some  high- 
class,  gilt-edged  speculation.  And  I've  asked  several 
people's  advice  —  not  to  shift  the  responsibility,  but 
just  for  instance  —  and  —  to  make  a  long  story  short, 
Mr.  Cullen  gave  me  some  pointers,  and  now  I'm  in- 
terested in  your  copper  mine.  Only  —  and  this  is 
where  the  hitch  comes  in  —  I've  sort  of  got  into  the 
swing  of  the  law,  you  know,  and  that  makes  men  — 
well,  what  you  might  call  judgmatical.  You  get  so 
you  want  to  look  at  everything  from  all  four  sides. 
And  I  thought  maybe  because  of  the  —  the  attending 
circumstances  —  you'd  be  kind  enough  to  explain  the 
whole  thing  to  me.     Would  you?" 

Hilliard,  who  didn't  know  whether  to  be  touched  or 
amused,  compromised  by  nodding  gravely. 

"  There's  one  thing  I'll  have  to  tell  3'ou,  though," 
he  said ;  "  I  don't  advise  any  one  to  gamble  in  copper 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  197 

mines,  or  anything  else,  Waring,  unless  that  person 
could  actually  afford  to  lose  his  whole  investment,  and 
not  be  hurt.  And  in  this  particular  case,  since  I 
happen  to  control  the  situation,  I  won't  permit  it. 
Does  that  hit  you,  or  doesn't  it?  " 

The  young  man's  mouth  opened  in  amazement.  He 
had  been  priming  liimself  to  be  a  clever  investigator, 
and  to  pick  yawning  flaws  in  Hilliard's  underwriting, 
and  here  his  thunder  was  stolen  before  he  had  had  a 
chance  to  stake  the  segis  of  his  cleverness. 

"Why  —  it  isn't  a  gambley  is  it?  I  understood  — 
Mr.  Cullen  said  — " 

"  It's  safer  to  figure  it  as  a  gamble.  Waring.  It's 
safe  to  figure  all  these  things  that  way.  Of  course,  we 
think  it's  a  wonderful  prospect,  and  a  practically  posi- 
tive success,  but  I  don't  mind  telling  you  that  so  far  I 
haven't  allowed  a  man  who  couldn't  afford  to  lose  his 
whole  subscription  —  and  didn't  understand  very 
clearly  that  he  might  —  to  come  in  for  so  much  as  a 
plugged  nickel.     And  that  would  apply  to  you,  too." 

The  law  student  gasped,  incredulous. 

"  You  don't  mean  to  say  it  isn't  a  sure  thing?  " 

"  Is  any  speculation?  You  see  I'm  not  working  very 
hard  to  take  your  five  hundred  away  from  you.  Waring. 
I  don't  mind  your  coming  in  if  you  want  to,  and  I'd 
make  it  as  easy  for  you  as  I  can,  but  I  don't  want 
you  to  be  under  any  misapprehension,  not  for  one 
second." 

The  boy  scowled. 

"  That's  different  —  I  suppose  it's  really  too  small 
for  you  to  bother  with.  Is  that  what  you're  driving 
at?" 

HiUiard  smiled  cordially. 


198  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

"  It  is,  and  it  isn't.  From  any  one  I  didn't  know, 
I'd  rather  not  touch  it.  It  isn't  a  good  plan,  ordi- 
narily, to  have  a  lot  of  small  stockholders  —  the  ob- 
jection is  simply  that  it  complicates  action,  and  action 
is  what  we  want.  But  from  you, —  and  if  it  isn't  more 
than  you  ought  to  risk  — " 

Waring  snatched  at  the  straw. 

"  Well,  seeing  you're  who  you  are,  and  I'm  who  I 
am,  would  you  be  willing  to  give  me  just  as  much  in- 
formation as  you  would  if  I  had  twenty  times  as  much 
to  put  in.'^  " 

"  Come  up  to  the  room,"  said  Hilliard  impulsively ; 
and  he  was  actuated  solely  by  the  obligation  he  felt 
towards  all  of  Mr.  Cullen's  friends.  "  You  come  along 
up  to  the  room,  and  I'll  show  you  everything  I've  got. 
Maps  —  plans  —  figures  —  estimates  —  everything. 
Will  that  do?" 

At  the  last  words,  the  amateur  detective  had  bright- 
ened. 

"  I  can't  come  now  very  well.  But  maybe  I  could  run 
up  this  evening,  if  that's  all  right  for  you." 

"That'll  be  just  as  good.  Eight  o'clock?  Fine." 
He  held  out  his  hand.     Waring  took  it  limply. 

"  I'm  afraid  I'm  causing  you  a  lot  of  bother,"  he 
said,  "  but  it  is  a  pretty  big  thing  for  me ;  I'd  like  to 
know  just  as  much  about  it  as  you  want  to  give 
me.  ...  I  hope  you  don't  think  it's  anything  per- 
sonal ...  I  mean  my  not  just  taking  it  for 
granted  — " 

"  Not  at  aU.  Business  is  business.  I'll  expect  you 
at  eight,  then."  Hilliard  nodded  good-humourcdl}^ 
and  went  on  north.  A  quaint  intuition  overcame  him, 
and  he  glanced  back  over  his  shoulder.     Fifty  yards 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  199 

away  the  law-student  was  also  glancing  over  his 
shoulder,  and  Waring,  having  less  of  self-possession 
than  the  adventurer,  blushed  and  jerked  his  head  to 
the  front ;  Hilliard  chuckled  and  continued  his  stroll. 

Having  completed  the  four  sides  of  the  square  in  a 
solitary  little  procession  of  triumph,  he  entered  the 
Hotel  Onondaga  from  the  east,  and  headed  across 
towards  the  news-stand.  Out  of  a  red  and  gold  chair  in 
the  spacious  lobby,  a  gentleman  rose  to  meet  him  — 
a  gentleman  who  in  appearance  was  a  very  fair  replica 
of  the  well-known  Get-Rich-Quick  Wallingford,  except 
that  he  was  somewhat  more  refined  and  less  obese.  He 
was  beaming  humorously  and  complacently;  and  his 
manner  showed  the  paternal  regard  of  an  elderly  em- 
ployer for  a  bright  salesman,  who  is  breaking  records. 
His  animation  was  obvious,  but  he  delayed  to  remove 
both  his  grey  suede  gloves  before  he  offered  to  shake 
hands  with  Hilliard. 

"  Well !  "  said  Martin  Harmon,  effusively,  "  you're 
looking  great!  Must  agree  with  you  up  here,  what.'* 
Didn't  expect  me,  did  you.'^  " 

"  No  !  "  Hilliard's  expression  was  a  study ;  he  had 
dealt  so  long  with  Harmon  at  a  distance  that  he  had 
almost  forgotten  what  the  broker  looked  like.  "  Why 
didn't  you  wire  me  you  were  coming?" 

Harmon  waved  a  fat  hand  in  deprecation;  it  was  a 
gesture  to  imply  magnificent  events  in  the  background. 
Hilliard  noticed  (and  wondered  how  he  had  happened 
to  overlook  this  before)  that  the  broker  wore  a  diamond 
ring  of  better  than  sixty  candle-power. 

"  Didn't  know  it  myself  until  pretty  near  train-time 
—  spur  of  the  moment.     Well,  got  any  business  yet.''  " 

Involuntarily,  Hilliard  smiled,  and  the  smile  spread 


200  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

wonderfully,  until  Harmon  caugkt  the  contagion  of 
it  and  beamed  more  royally  than  ever.  "  The  man 
you  called  the  '  decoy  duck  ' —  remember  when  3'ou 
wrote  that  to  me?  —  well,  he  quacked  yesterday." 

Harmon  put  his  hand  on  Hilliard's  shoulder;  it  was 
an  accolade.  His  round  face  lengthened  into  compara- 
tive seriousness. 

''Redly?     How  much.?" 

"Thirty."  For  the  life  of  him  Hilliard  couldn't 
resist  a  slight  forward  thrust  of  his  chest. 

Mr.  Harmon's  eyes  glazed  for  an  instant. 

"  Good  —  good !  That's  clever  work,  son  !  Clever 
and  quick.  But  I  knew  you'd  do  it.  Thirty.?  That's 
finel     An3'body  else.?  " 

Hilliard  laughed  exultantly,  and  lowered  his   voice. 

"  Yes,  three  more  —  a  total  of  sixty-two.  I  mailed 
you  a  draft  yesterday  morning;  the  others  are  in  m^^ 
pocket  now.     I've  just  come  from  the  bank." 

"  Great  work,  son  !  "  Mr.  Harmon  breathed  raptu- 
rously. "  That  puts  us  pretty  nearlj^  where  we  belong. 
Sixty-two  thousand !  It's  a  running  start  for  the  big 
race !  You  certainly  didn't  get  left  at  the  post,  Hil- 
liard!     Deducted  your  commissions  yet?" 

"  No ;  I  thought  you'd  rather  do  the  bookkeeping  in 
your  own  office  and  send  me  a  check.  I've  still  got 
twelve  hundred  left  out  of  my  expense  mone}^" 

Harmon's  approval  was  manifest. 

"  You  show  me  the  drafts,  and  I'll  write  you  a  check 
this  minute.  Let's  go  sit  down  in  the  grill,  and  have 
something.      This  is  fine  work,  now  I  want  to  tell  you !  " 

"  I  rather  thought  so  myself."  Hilliard  had  led  the 
way  to  the  grill,  and  commandeered  a  side-table.  "  In 
fact  — "     He  lowered  his  voice.     "  In  fact,  as  things 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  201 

have  worked  out,  Mr.  Harmon,  I  almost  wish  I  hadn't 
tried  to  play  it  just  this  way.     I  mean  — " 

But  Harmon  had  already  grasped  the  point. 

"  Oho !  Is  that  so  ?  You  must  have  made  a  hit. 
And  all  your  old  friends  you  were  so  het  up  about  — 
weren't  they  as  peevish  at  you  as  you  thought  ?  " 

"  No."  Hilliard  grew  warm.  "  I'd  give  a  good 
deal,"  he  said  soberly,  "  if  I  hadn't  tangled  myself  up 
in  all  that  imitation  history.  I  never  liked  the  idea 
of  it  from  the  first.  But  after  I'd  once  got  involved 
in  it  — " 

"  Now  don't  criticize  your  boss,"  said  Harmon,  good- 
naturedly.  "  That  was  my  own  idea  from  start  to 
finish." 

"  Only  it  wasn't.  That  is,  it  was  your  thought  for 
me  to  go  straight  to  Cullen,  of  course,  but  the  story 
I  told  him  .  .  .  you  don't  know  how  far  I  went,  and 
I'm  not  going  to  tell  you.  But  all  I'd  intended  to  do 
was  to  furnish  an  alibi,  and  instead  of  that,  I  got  into 
a  sort  of  wholesale  business."  He  smiled  ruefully. 
"  Well,  I'm  in  for  it  now.  I've  published  so  much  that 
I  didn't  need  to  —  I'm  wondering  how  in  thunder  I  can 
ever  get  out  of  it  when  the  time  comes.  That  was  the 
idea,  you  remember  —  coals  of  fire.  What's  bothering 
me  is  that  there's  nobody  to  tend  the  furnace." 

"  But  I  thought  you  were  so  anxious  to  keep  in 
the  shade.?" 

"  Yes,  but  I  didn't  need  to  crawl  in  a  hole,  and 
pull  it  in  after  me!  Well,  we'll  wait  and  see.  That's 
my  funeral;  not  yours.  After  I've  gone  a  little  fur- 
ther —  and  of  course,  you  know  I've  hardly  scratched 
the  surface  yet  — " 

"  I  know  you  haven't."     The  big  man  tucked  his 


202  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

gloves  into  his  breast  pocket,  and  brought  out  a  silver 
cigarette  case.     "  Have  one?  " 

"  Thank  you.  And  you  might  take  these  drafts 
now;  three  of  'em.  Right .^  Good.  Well  —  any  de- 
velopments ?  " 

"  What? "  Harmon  tapped  his  cigarette  case  in 
the  palm  of  his  left  hand.  "  Oh,  you  mean  the  mine. 
Why,  I  brought  up  another  engineer's  report  for  you; 
little  bit  better  than  the  last  one;  shows  a  fine  area 
of  mineralized  schist,  with  disseminated  iron  and  cop- 
per values  — " 

Hilliard  nodded.  "  Yes,  but  what  I  meant  was,  have 
you  gone  any  further  with  the  shaft  yet?  Two  or 
three  of  the  more  cautious  men  are  holding  back  un- 
til something  happens  with  that.  I'm  hoping  you  can 
give  me  the  ammunition  to  bring  'em  down  with." 

"  Shaft?  "  Harmon  was  puzzled.  "  What  shaft?  " 
He  placidly  stowed  away  the  drafts.  "  I'm  not  sinking 
any  new  shafts  at  this  stage  of  the  game." 

It  was  Hilliard's  turn  to  be  puzzled. 

"  Why,  I  mean  the  old  shaft  on  Silverbow  No.  1. 
Have  you  gone  any  further  with  it?  I've  told  these 
people  we  were  just  starting.  That's  right,  isn't 
it?  " 

Harmon  laughed  noisily. 

"  Oh,  that  shaft !  Don't  you  think  it's  a  little  early 
to  begin  on  that?  Say,  about  ninety  thousand  dollars 
too  early?  " 

As  Hilliard  sat  gazing  at  him  in  profound  bewilder- 
ment, a  waiter  slid  up  alongside  him  and  coughed  for 
his  attention. 

"  What's  the  matter  ?  "  demanded  Harmon,  roughly. 
The  waiter  ignored  him. 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  203 

"  Gentleman  wants  to  speak  to  you  outside,  Mr.  Mil- 
liard.    In  the  lobby.     Says  it's  important." 

"  Oh !  "  Billiard  drew  the  back  of  his  hand  across 
his  forehead.  "  Tell  him  I'll  come  right  out.  Will 
you  excuse  me  a  moment,  Mr.  Harmon.'^  " 

"  Sure !  Go  ahead."  The  promoter  sat  back  com- 
fortably, and  gave  him  a  wave  of  dismissal.  Hilliard, 
his  pupils  narrowing,  went  out  to  the  doorway.  A  pace 
or  two  distant,  one  of  the  vice-presidents  of  the  Trust 
and  Deposit  Company  —  a  friend  of  Cullen's,  and  a 
very  good  man  to  know  —  was  loitering  restively.  At 
sight  of  Hilliard,  his  face  cleared,  and  he  stepped  for- 
ward quickly. 

"  Hello,  Hilliard,"  he  said,  wrinkling  his  forehead. 
"How  are  you?  Look  here,  it's  none  of  my  business, 
of  course,  but  I  couldn't  help  wondering  how  much  you 
know  about  that  chap  you're  sitting  with.  Don't  be 
offended ;  it's  a  friendly  question.  Simply  my  interest 
in  you  as  one  of  our  clients." 

"  Why,  I  know  a  good  deal  about  him."  Hilliard 
wasn't  exactly  affronted,  but  he  was  annoyed,  and 
showed  it. 

The  banker  continued   solemnly. 

"  You  probably  know  a  lot  more  about  him  than  I 
do,  then,  but  just  the  same,  I  wanted  to  make  sure. 
That's  all."     He  turned,  but  Hilliard  stopped  him. 

"  Well,  what  do  you  know  about  him.''  " 

"  Before  I  answer  that  —  is  he  a  friend  of  yours?  '* 
The  question  was  too  blunt  to  be  diplomatic,  and  too 
suggestive  to  be  disregarded. 

"  Not  exactly  that ;  he's  a  rather  good  acquaintance, 
though.  In  a  business  way  only  —  what  he  is  socially 
I  don't  know,  and  I  don't  think  I  much  care." 


204.  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

"  So  you  don't  need  any  advice  about  his  business  con- 
nections? " 

"  Why,  I  think  not."  He  was  nettled  by  the  banker's 
manner. 

"  The  only  thing  about  it,"  said  the  vice-president, 
nettled  in  his  turn  by  Hilliard's  brevity,  "  is  that  if 
you'd  said  you  didn't  know  him  very  well,  I'd  have 
offered  you  some  suggestions.  I'd  have  expected  you 
to  thank  me  —  I  really  would.  Under  the  circum- 
stances, I  can't  very  well  go  any  farther  than  this. 
It  was  just  that  I  hoped  you  knew  what  j^ou're  doing. 
Sorry  I  interrupted  you." 

"  No,  but  wait  a  minute  !     I  — " 

The   vice-president's    refusal   was   firm   and   definite. 

"  I  can't  say  another  word.  Not  another  one.  If 
you  know  him,  that's  sufficient."  And  strode  away 
across  the  lobby,  leaving  Hilliard  dumbfounded. 

Mr.  Harmon,  smiling  broadlj^,  half  arose  from  his 
chair  as  the  masquerader  came  slowly  back  to  the  table 
and  sat  down  hard. 

"Well,"  he  said.     "More  business.?" 

Hilliard  shook  his  head. 

"  On  the  contrary."  His  voice  in  it  had  a  curious 
dulness  which  the  broker  was  quick  to  catch. 

"  No  bad  news,  I  hope.'^  " 

Hilliard  shivered. 

"  I'm  not  sure.  Let's  go  on  discussing  the  mine." 
He  rested  his  elbows  on  the  table,  and  his  pupils  were 
needle-points. 

"Not  much  else  to  discuss,  is  there?  It's  the  same 
old  mine."  He  looked  intently  at  Hilliard.  "  What's 
got  into  you,  anyway,  in  the  last  couple  of  minutes? 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  205 

You've  lost  all  your  pep.  You  look  as  though  you've 
seen  a  ghost." 

"  Maybe  I  have,"  said  Hilliard,  with  a  short  laugh. 

"Well?" 

Hilliard  regarded  him  with  an  odd  intermingling  of 
respect  and  alarm.  The  respect  was  a  hold-over  from 
the  past  —  from  the  early  impression  he  had  formed 
from  Harmon's  resplendent  oiSBces  in  New  York,  and 
Harmon's  contempt  of  money.  He  had  considered  his 
employer,  at  worst,  a  weak -principled  vendor  of  legit- 
imate securities. 

"  Mr.  Harmon,"  he  said  reluctantly,  "  I'm  in  a 
mighty  awkward  position.  .  .  .  But  all  our  relations 
have  been  so  confidential, —  and  I'm  representing  you 
in  Syracuse  now  —  we  can't  afford  to  let  anything  spoil 
this  campaign,  can  we?  " 

"  Not  if  we  can  very  well  help  it.  What's  bother- 
ing you  ?  " 

"  For  over  ten  weeks  now,"  he  said  at  length,  "  I've 
been  building  up  a  reputation  —  you  know  what  I've 
been  doing;  you  know  how  much  depends  on  it.  I've 
handled  everything  according  to  your  instructions  — 
or  rather,  to  our  agreement  —  your  name  hasn't  been 
mentioned  once;  I've  been  selling  this  thing  on  my  own 
personality  —  holding  myself  out  as  the  principal. 
Well,  the  man  who  called  me  outside  just  now  —  and  he's 
one  of  the  solid  banking  crowd  up  here  —  he  spoke  of 
you  as  though  he  knew  you.  In  fact  —  to  be  per- 
fectly frank  —  he  called  me  out  there  to  ask  me  about 
you.  Now  I  don't  know  what  dealings  you've  ever 
had  with  him,  or  with  any  one  else  up  here,  but  it 
struck  me  that  if  there  is  anything  between  you  and 


g06  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

Syracuse,  or  any  of  its  fairly  big  men,  perhaps  it 
would  be  better  if  I  knew  it.  You  see,  this  thing  I'm 
selling  is  so  darned  personal  — " 

"  Who  was  he?  "     Harmon's  voice  rasped. 

"  Embree  —  of  the  Trust  and  Deposit  Company." 

"  Oh,  yes."  Harmon  smoked  reflectively.  "  Yes,  we 
know  each  other.     What  did  he  have  to  say  ?  " 

"  It  wasn't  so  much  what  he  said  as  the  way  he  said 
it.  But  in  view  of  the  particular  sort  of  work  I'm  do- 
ing, and  — " 

"  I  understand  all  that."  Harmon  brought  his 
brows  together.  "I'm  trusting  your  judgment  up  to 
the  limit,  son.  Just  between  ourselves,  I  ain't  any  too 
popular  with  this  crowd,  and  I'm  glad  of  it.  Never 
mind  ancient  historj^  —  stick  to  the  present.  If  you 
think  it'll  do  any  harm  to  the  proposition  if  you  hang 
around  here  with  me,  why,  we  can  go  up  to  your 
room.  If  you're  so  blamed  high-browed  that  your 
friends  can't  stand  me,  why  — " 

"  Nothing  in  that,"  said  Hilliard,  quickly.  "  If  any 
harm's  to  be  done,  it's  done  dlvQd.dy.  I  don't  suppose 
there  is  — at  least,  I  can't  see  why  there  should  be  — 
I  only  wanted  to  have  the  story  all  ready  if  the  subject 
ever  comes  up.  I  suppose  you've  had  some  disagree- 
ment with  these  people?  " 

"  Some  disagreement,"  admitted  Harmon,  grinning. 
"  These  up-State  farmers  and  I  love  each  other  like  a 
couple  of  strange  bulldogs.     Still  — " 

"  If  it  isn't  objectionable  to  j'ou,"  said  Hilliard, 
hesitating,  "  I'd  rather  hke  to  know  a  bit  about  it, 
Mr.  Harmon.  As  I  said  before,  the  subject  might 
come  up  later.  It's  almost  sure  to,  now  that  Embree's 
seen  you  and  spoken  to  me  about  you.     And  if  you've 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  207 

had  any  quarrel  with  this  crowd,  even  if  it  wasn't 
jour  fault,  and  if  it  came  out  that  I'm  working  for  you, 
and  there  was  any  talk  about  it,  you  can  see  how  I'd 
have  to  be  on  the  defensive.  ...  So  if  you  could  just 
give  me  a  faint  idea  — " 

"  Plain  English  is  a  lot  better  than  a  faint  idea," 
said  Harmon  carelessly.  "  I  floated  some  steel  bonds 
up  here  once.  Prettiest  bonds  you  ever  saw  in  your 
life,  too." 

"  Oh !     And  they  didn't  turn  out  well  ?  " 

Harmon's  eyes  twinkled,  and  his  shoulders  shook  with 
dry  humour. 

"  Not  exactly.  The  company  was  too  much  like 
Silverbow,  I  guess  —  all  float  and  no  lode." 

For  a  moment,  Hilliard  thought  that  he  hadn't 
heard  aright. 

"What  was  that  you  said?"  he  managed. 

Harmon  reiterated  it. 

"  Too  much  like  Silverbow.  Only  they  pumped  the 
water  out  of  it  sooner  than  we  will.  That  was  five 
years  ago." 

At  first,  Hilliard  was  untouched  by  the  shock ;  the 
force  of  it  seemed  to  pass  over  him  entirely;  then  all 
at  once,  as  he  was  caught  by  the  drift  of  it,  his  hands 
began  to  tremble  violently ;  and  his  palms  were  clammy 
with  sweat.  His  stomach  seemed  to  drop  out  of  him, 
and  he  was  nauseated  by  the  tremendous  purport  of  his 
employer's  cynicism. 

"  Mr.  Harmon !  "  he  panted,  under  his  breath,  "  Mr. 
Harmon !  " 

The  New  Yorker  looked  at  him  in  genuine  surprise. 

"  What's  tlie  matter,  Hilliard?  You  look  sick!  Or 
.  .  .  damn  it,  man,  if  that's  another  one  of  your  bluffs, 


ftOS  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

you're  wasting  your  time.  You  haven't  worked  up 
such  a  holy  disposition  you  believe  in  this  mine,  have 
you?  "  He  moved  uneasily.  "  I  wish  you'd  wipe  that 
pious  expression  off  your  face  —  or  is  it  glued  on?" 
He  laughed  fitfully.  "  Say,  are  you  doing  it  on  pur- 
pose, «r  is  that  some  more  of  your  Christly  miracle?  " 

Hilliard's  voice  shook  uncontrollably. 

"  You  have  the  nerve  to  sit  there  and  tell  me  — " 

"  Nerve?  "  Harmon's  eyes  flashed.  "  Yes,  I've  got 
plenty  of  nerve.     Lost  yours?     I'll  lend  you  some." 

Hilliard  put  his  quaking  hands  on  the  table,  as 
though  to  steady  himself. 

"  This  .  .  .  this  mine !  "  he  stammered.  "  You  told 
me—" 

"  I'll  stand  by  everything  I've  ever  told  you,  Hilliard. 
I'll  prove  it.  It's  an  area  of  mineralized  schist  with 
disseminated  copper  values.  And  we've  got  over  a  hun- 
dred acres  of  it.  And  part  of  a  shaft,  too."  He 
laughed  noiselessly.  "  Of  course,  altogether  there's 
about  five  hundred  square  miles  of  that  same  sort  of 
land  in  the  same  State,  but  what's  the  odds  as  long's 
you're  happy?  Tell  7^  you  aren't  wise?  Rot!  Why, 
you  knew  all  about  it  when  we  were  on  the  boat !  " 

Hilliard's  muscles  were  working  in  hysterical  jumps, 
and  his  face  was  distorted. 

"  Y-you  .  .  .  y-you're  sa3dng  .  .  .  y-3'ou're  saying 
I've  been  selling  .  .  .  s-selling  to  my  friends  a  piece 
of  damned  worthless  property?  Are  you?  Because  if 
that's  true,  by  God,  I'll  — " 

"  Shut  up ! "  The  big  man  was  dominant,  ugly. 
"Understand  me?  You  keep  your  mouth  shut  if  you 
know  what's  good  for  you!     Didn't  you  come  up  here 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  209 

to  get  square  with  your  'friends'?  Your  friends!''' 
His  accent  was  superlatively  contemptuous.  "  You 
knew  it  wasn't  a  producing  mine,  didn't  you?  " 

"You  told  me  it  was  a  wonderful  prospect! 
You  — " 

«  Well  —  it's  still  a  prospect.  Don't  you  know  the 
difference  ?  " 

Hilliard  fought  desperately  for  his  poise. 

"  I  know  what  you  told  me !  ...  I  know  it  was  a 
long  shot,  but  I  thought  there  was  some  value  there 
...  a  lot  of  it  ..  .  and  you  said  the  shaft  .  .  .  you 
always  said  the  shaft  was  — " 

Harmon  reached  for  another  cigarette ;  there  was  un- 
disguised perplexity  on  his  face. 

"  Son,  if  you  aren't  a  mighty  good  actor,  you're 
.  .  .  are  you  going  to  claim  you  didn't  know  what 
this  mine  is?  After  all  that  whining  and  squealing  of 
yours  about  your  getting  even?  Then  what  in  thunder 
did  you  want  to  come  back  here  for  ?  " 

"  To  make  some  money  —  to  get  some  fun  out  of  it  — 
to  make  good  first  and  .  .  .  and  get  even  by  — " 

"  Then  why  in  the  devil  did  you  agree  to  all  that 
bunk  about  your  dying  in  France,  and  — " 

"  Don't  ask  me!  I  can't  tell  you !  It  was  part  of 
the  game !  I  wanted  to  make  fools  of  people ;  I  didn't 
want  to  swindle  anybody !  I  thought  I  was  giving  'em 
something  for  their  money  !     I  — " 

Harmon  Hghted  his  cigarette,  none  too  complacently. 

"  The  funny  part  about  it,"  he  said  slowly,  "  is  that 
I  don't  honestly  believe  you're  bluffing.  ...  Of  course, 
that  face  of  yours —  But  you  knew  it  was  only  a 
prospect." 


210  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

*•  But  I  thought  it  was  a  good  prospect !  Never 
mind  — "  He  made  as  though  to  rise.  "  You've  said 
enough.     I'm  through  with  you !  " 

The  big  man's  jaw  thrust  out  belligerently,  and  he 
caught  Hilliard  by  the  arm. 

"Now,  stop  right  there!  Sit  down!  Sit  down! 
Maybe  you  thought  it  was  a  good  prospect  and  maybe 
you  didn't,  but  you're  not  through  with  me  yet  —  not 
until  /  say  so.  Don't  you  make  any  mistakes  like  that, 
^y  boy.  Don't  you  go  off  half -shot  —  not  yet! 
Remember  our  contract?  Ever  heard  of  promoter's 
liability.?  I'd  certainly  hate  to  see  you  get  into  trouble, 
but  if  you've  made  any  wild  statements  about  ma- 
terial facts  — " 

Hilliard  was  straining  half  across  the  table. 

"  You  told  me  the  ore  was  there!  And  I  thought 
the  worst  that  could  happen  would  be  to  tie  up  this 
money  for  a  few  years  —  that's  why  a  prospect's  so 
hard  to  sell!  I  knew  darned  well  it  wasn't  any  whirl- 
wind right  now,  but  I  did  think  they'd  .  .  .  they'd  at 
least  make  something  good  out  of  it  .  .  .  eventually 
.  .  .  even  if  it  .  .  ." 

"  Ah !  "  said  Harmon,  sneering,  "  but  you  had  every 
opportunity  to  learn  the  facts  —  ev-e-ry  opportunity. 
It's  not  my  fault  if  you  went  off  half-cocked.  /  don't 
know  what  you've  represented  to  your  gang  up  here. 
rm  not  responsible.  All  I  know  is  that  you've  col- 
lected sixty-two  thousand  dollars,  and  turned  it  over 
to  me,  and  I'm  to  give  you  stock  for  it,  and  pay  you  a 
rebate  in  cash.  Maybe  you  caU  it  a  commission  .  .  . 
it's  a  rebate!  Read  the  contract.  Read  it  carefully, 
while  you're  about  it.  Take  it  to  a  lawyer;  I  don't 
care.     Any  lawyer  you  like.     If  you've  gone  beyond 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  211 

the  facts,  I'm  mighty  sorry  for  you,  but  I  don't  see 
how  it  affects  me  any.     Do  you?  " 

Hilliard  had  slumped  wretchedly  into  his  chair;  his 
cheeks,  which  had  been  scorched  with  shame,  were 
blanched  with  misery.  He  was  sickened  and  abased 
to  the  point  of  utter  prostration ;  his  thoughts  were 
running  aimlessly  about  the  grim  axis  of  his  chicanery. 

"  And  .  .  .  and  after  all  I've  done !  "  he  said  thickly. 
"  After  all  I've  said!  Oh,  my  God !  "  His  chin  sank 
low,  and  his  grip  on  the  table  relaxed. 

Harmon  was  less  at  ease  than  he  pretended.  "  Well, 
if  you  aren't  bluffing,"  he  said  presently,  "  you  sure  are 
the  biggest  baby  for  a  man's-sized  man  /  ever  saw. 
Brace  up,  there !     You  — " 

Hilliard  pulled  himself  erect  with  a  final  effort,  and 
his  fist  gestured  his  accusation. 

"  You  know  what  I'm  going  to  do  about  it,  don't 
you?" 

"  Yes."  Harmon  nodded,  as  he  drew  the  smoke  deep 
into  his  lungs. 

"  I'm  going  straight  back  to  those  four  men,  and  — " 

"  No."  Harmon  wagged  his  head.  "  No,  you  can't 
very  well  do  that,  either  —  even  if  you're  as  shocked  as 
you  look.  Not  unless  you're  ready  to  tell  the  whole 
truth,  and  I  hardly  think  you  are.  Look  at  it  just  a 
minute  .  .  .  look  at  our  contract.  There's  some  loop- 
holes for  me  you  could  drive  a  motor-truck  through ; 
but  you  haven't  got  one  as  big  as  a  knitting  needle. 
No,  son,  the  best  thing  for  you  to  do  is  to  take  a  brace, 
and  go  get  another  sixty  thousand  while  the  getting 
is  good." 

"  Not  necessarily !  "  Hilliard's  high-pitched  laugh 
was  brittle. 


212  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

Harmon  allowed  the  smoke  to  eddy  gently  from  his 
nostrils.     "  Yes, —  necessarily." 

"  You  think  I'll  raise  my  finger  after  this,  except  to 
.  .  .  what  do  you  take  me  for?  " 

"  I  take  you,"  said  Harmon  deliberately,  "  for  a 
short-sighted  young  man  in  a  mighty  bad  spot.  You 
don't  want  these  folks  up  here  to  know  the  "whole 
truth,  do  you.''  You  don't  want  CuUen  to  get  wise  to 
this,  do  j'ou.'^  Or  Dr.  Durant.'^  It  wouldn't  hurt  me 
any  —  but  after  the  record  you  made  here  before  you 
got  yourself  kicked  out  two  years  ago.  ...  Oh !  don't 
jump!  You  don't  think  I've  been  asleep,  do  you.?  .  .  . 
I  don't  believe  you'd  get  much  sympathy.  Not  much ! 
And  I've  invested  a  lot  of  money  in  you.  ...  I  want 
some  big  returns.  And  I  pretty  generally  manage  to 
get  what  I  want.  .  .  .  Look  me  in  the  e3^e,  son.  I 
want  you  to  calm  down.  Now  there's  only  three  parties 
to  this  deal  —  you  and  me  and  the  world.  You  and 
me  —  and  the  world.  Get  that.?  And  you  and  1  have 
got  to  play  straight  with  each  other.  No  matter  what 
else  happens,  you  and  I  have  got  to  play  straight  with 
each  other.  You  help  me  get  the  money,  and  I'll  help 
you  get  whatever  you  want.  But  when  you  throw  me 
down,  I  throw  you  down,  and  we'll  see  who  comes  out 
ahead.     I'll  bet  I  do.     \^Tiat  do  you  bet.?  " 

Hilliard  shook  his  head  helplessl3^ 

"  You've  got  to  remember,"  said  Harmon  in  sardonic 
consolation,  "  that  you're  an  awful  easy  man  to  de- 
scribe. You  can  slip  out  of  Syracuse  just  as  easy  as 
you  please,  and  try  your  damnedest  to  make  a  getaway, 
and  you'd  have  pretty  hard  work  to  keep  away  from 
the  Pinkertons  for  twenty-four  hours.     And  I've  got 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  213 

the  evidence  that  would  put  'em  after  you.  So  don't 
you  plan  to  run  away,  son  —  don't  do  it." 

Hilliard's  judgment  was  tottering.  Where  did  he 
stand  in  relation  to  Armstrong  now? 

"Well?" 

Harmon  snatched  at  the  sign  of  weakness,  and  was 
instantly  persuasive. 

"  Staj  on  another  six  weeks ;  make  the  rest  of  your 
killing.  You've  gone  half  way ;  run  out  your  hit.  I 
always  like  to  see  a  man  run  like  the  devil  to  first  base 
on  a  fly  ball  —  the  outfielders  might  muff  it !  After 
this  is  over,  do  what  you  please.  That  was  our  agree- 
ment, wasn't  it?  You'll  have  money  enough  to  suit 
yourself.  I'm  playing  straight  with  you  .  .  .  aren't 
I?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Hilliard,  with  withering  sarcasm,  "  you 
are !  " 

Harmon  glowered  at  him. 

"  Don't  you  accuse  me  of  double-crossing  you,  son ! 
It's  the  other  way  round." 

"  You  aren't  fool  enough  to  expect  me,"  said  Hil- 
liard shakil}^,  "  to  keep  on  trying  to  sell  more  of  this 
rotten  stuff!     You  aren't  enough  of  a  fool  for  that  — " 

"  I  can,  and  I  do.  Y'ou're  in  for  it  now,  Hilliard, 
and  you  can't  very  well  go  back.  Y^'ou've  collected 
money ;  you  can't  get  your  hands  on  it  again ;  you  can't 
make  any  restitution.  You've  lied  your  head  off  al- 
ready; you  can't  do  any  better  now  than  to  stick  to 
your  first  story,  because  the  truth's  a  good  deal  worse. 
The  truth'U  blow  you  higher  than  a  kite.  The  big 
damage  is  all  done.  Isn't  it?  What  else  is  there? 
You'd  better  make  your  killing  and  make   it   quick. 


214  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

And  if  you  open  your  head  for  just  one  little  peep 
,  .  ,  flooey,  flooey,  and  the  fat's  in  the  fire.  You  want 
to  live  like  a  gentleman,  don't  you?  You  want  money 
and  friends  and  a  big  position  somewhere,  don't 
you  ?  Somewhere  quiet  —  after  the  storm's  over  ? 
Well  .  .  ," 

Hilliard's  head  was  splitting  with  the  horror  of  it ;  he 
was  passionately  young,  and  passionately  eager  for 
success;  he  had  revelled  in  the  consciousness  of  his 
new  achievements ;  and  now,  abruptly,  he  was  on  a  lower 
plane  than  the  lowest  of  his  former  failures.  He  saw, 
in  a  whirling  vision  of  dread,  the  people  of  the  city 
rising  to  denounce  him;  not  merely  for  his  inexcusable 
masquerade,  so  grotesquely  built  upon  the  dream  of 
regeneration,  not  only  for  his  vast  abuse  of  personal 
confidence,  not  only  for  the  base  hypocrisies  he  had 
practised  upon  his  quondam  sweetheart,  but  also  for 
this  grossly  profitable  fraud.  Dimly,  he  argued  just 
as  Harmon  claimed,  he  couldn't  be  in  harder  straits. 
The  worst  was  here ;  the  present  moment  was  the  climax, 
and  the  catastrophe.  A  spasm  of  reckless  fatalism 
shook  him. 

Harmon,  who  had  been  inspecting  him  critically,  took 
out  his  fountain  pen. 

"  I'll  write  you  your  check  for  commissions  —  shall 
I.?"  He  held  the  pen  poised  insinuatingl3\  "And 
then  we'll  forget  this  little  misunderstand,  and 
start  fresh.     Shall  I?" 

Hilliard,  rubbing  his  aching  forehead  and  his  seared 
eyeballs,  felt  life  slip  away  from  him  as  it  had  slipped 
when  the  monstrous  cone  at  Neuilly  had  begun  to  sever 
him  from  consciousness,  drop  by  drop. 

*'  Let's  see,"  said  Harmon,  with  great  attentiveness 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  215 

to  the  figures.  "  Your  twenty  percent  is  twelve  thou- 
sand four  hundred,  and  that,  less  half  expense  .  .  . 
call  'em  five  thousand  even  .  .  .  that's  seventy-four 
hundred."  He  tore  a  sheet  from  his  pocket  check-book, 
dried  the  ink  by  waving  it  in  the  air,  and  flirted  it 
over  to  Hilliard.  "  Put  it  away,  and  let's  have  some 
lunch.  If  you're  afraid  to  have  your  friends  see  me 
down  here,  let's  have  it  upstairs.  Vm  not  sensitive, 
son;  it  don't  pay." 

"  No,"  said  Hilliard,  dully,  ''  and  I  guess  it  never 
will." 

"  That's  the  idea !  Now  you're  talking  sense ! 
Come  on  up.  I'll  give  you  the  new  reports.  They're 
working  like  beavers  on  the  claim  right  next  to  Silver- 
bow  ;  know  it  ^  " 

"  No." 

"  Trying  to  locate  a  faulted  vein,"  said  Harmon, 
getting  to  his  feet.  "  But  the  old  vein  didn't  run  the 
right  way  for  us,  anyhow.  Almost  parallel  to  our 
boundary  line.  Still,  if  you  leave  that  out,  it  ain't  such 
a  bad  talking  point  at  that.  I'll  write  you  a  memo. 
Come  on,  son,  buck  up  and  let's  have  some  lunch.  .  .  ." 

At  eight  o'clock  in  the  evening,  when  Rufus  Waring 
knocked  at  Hilliard's  door,  it  was  opened  by  a  man 
with  a  face  to  remember  afterwards.  There  were  deep- 
cut  lines  —  almost  furrows  —  by  the  mouth  and  eyes ; 
and  the  eyes  themselves  were  startingly  luminous,  and 
drawn.     The  man's  complexion  was  chalk-white. 

"  Why,  Mr.  Hilliard  !  "  exclaimed  Waring.  "  What 
on  earth's  the  matter  with  you?  " 

"  Come  on  in,"  said  Hilliard,  and  his  smile  was 
ghastly.     **  I've  been  waiting  for  you." 


XVI 


HE  was  waiting,  hoping,  praying  for  a  blow  from 
fate,  but  fate,  which  at  other  times  had  been 
ready  enough  for  fisticuffs,  and  often  premature  with 
them,  refrained  from  striking.  The  interview  with 
Waring  had  passed  without  friction  (and  Hilliard  had 
so  contrived  to  present  his  data  that  Waring  had  finally 
declined  the  risk)  and  the  night  passed  and  the  morn- 
ing came,  with  its  accompanying  horde  of  old  regrets 
and  a  new  and  sweeping  inrush  of  fresh  hallucinations. 
Hilliard  was  grim  and  haggard ;  sleep  had  divorced  him, 
and  his  brain  was  hot  and  inaccurate.  His  motions 
were  forced,  mechanical;  he  dragged  himself  out  of 
bed,  and  ordered  coffee  served  in  his  room ;  he  shrank 
from  association  with  the  clean,  ingenuous  world. 

To  his  tortured  imagination,  he  was  a  greater  para- 
dox than  even  Jek3dl  and  H3'de ;  for  he  was  Hilliard 
and  Dicky  Morgan,  the  living  and  the  dead,  without 
the  boon  of  the  supernatural  to  separate  them.  And 
yet  he  felt  that  the  wickedness  of  what  he  had  done 
was  the  wickedness  of  Dicky  Morgan,  and  that  he,  Hil- 
liard, the  soul,  was  sitting  in  impartial  judgment  on 
Dicky  Morgan,  the  flesh.  He  conceded  the  wrong;  he 
conceded  the  penalty;  nevertheless,  his  youth  cried  out 
to  him  for  mercy.  He  wavered  pitiably;  and  then,  as 
he  felt  himself  grasping  for  strength,  stretching  out 
the  arms  of  his  soul  for  courage  and  counsel,  his  eyes 
fell  accidentally  upon  a  book  on  the  telephone  table, 
and  he  stared  at  it  blankly. 

216 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  ^17 

"  Placed  here  by  The  Gideons  "  .  .  .  hm !  He  had 
heard  of  the  Gideons,  that  organization  of  commercial 
travellers  which  places  Bibles  in  every  room  of  all  im- 
portant hotels.  Curious  ...  he  had  never  noticed 
this  one  before.  Was  it  .  .  .  could  it  be  possible  that 
he  could  find  comfort  here?  Absurd !  Sceptically,  he 
picked  it  up.  "  A  lot  of  help  this  is !  "  he  said,  aloud, 
and  bitterly.  The  volume  opened  in  his  hands.  Prov- 
erbs. .  .  . 

Bread  of  deceit  is  sweet  to  a  mariy  hut  afterwards  his 
mouth  shall  he  filled  with  gravel. 

He  peered  at  the  words,  and  flinched.  His  eyes  wid- 
ened; he  hastily  turned  over  several  pages. 

It  is  as  sport  to  a  fool  to  do  mischief,  hut  a  man  of 
understanding  hath  wisdom. 

The  fear  of  the  wicked,  it  shall  come  upon  him;  hut 
the  desire  of  the  righteous  shall  he  granted. 

As  the  whirlwind  passeth,  so  is  the  wicked  no  more; 
hut  the  righteous  is  an  everlasting  foundation. 

As  vinegar  to  the  teeth,  and  as  smoke  to  the  eyes,  so 
is  the  sluggard  to  them  that  send  him. 

The  fear  of  the  Lord  prolongeth  days;  hut  the  years 
of  the  wicked  shall  he  shortened. 

The  hope  of  the  righteous  shall  he  gladness;  hut  the 
expectation  of  the  wicked  shall  perish. 

The  way  of  the  Lord  is  strength  to  the  upright;  hut 
destruction  shall  he  to  the  workers  of  iniquity. 

The  book,  which  Hilliard  had  dropped  incontinently 
on  the  telephone  table,  fell  sprawling  to  the  floor.  Hil- 
liard himself,  engulfed  by  the  resistless  surge  of  the 
Prophet's  accusation,  stood  smiling  weakly. 


218  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

"  '  As  the  whirlwind  passeth  ! '  "  he  said  aloud.  "  '  So 
is  the  wicked  no  more ! '  "  He  laughed  shrilly,  and 
reached  out  to  the  larger  table,  and  endeavoured  to 
pour  for  himself  a  cup  of  coffee.  The  scalding  fluid 
tasted  lukewarm;  his  palate,  like  his  heart,  was  numb. 

"  It  is  as  sport  to  a  fool  to  do  mischief  .  .  ." 

Hilliard  sat  down  limply,  and  buried  his  face  in  his 
hands. 

Liebestraum ! 


XVII 

AT  the  maid's  announcement,  Dr.  Durant,  who  had 
been  occupied  with  nothing  more  momentous  than 
filling  a  pot-bellied  calabash,  rose  hastily  and  went 
out  into  the  hallway. 

"  Come  in,  Hilliard !  "  he  said  cordially.  "  Carol's 
off  looking  at  somebody's  trousseau  .  .  .  somebody's 
always  getting  married  in  Syracuse  .  .  .  she'll  be  in 
directly.     Come  smoke  a  pipe  with  me,  and  be  sociable." 

Hilliard,  lingering  nervously  by  the  outer  door, 
started  at  the  kind  voice. 

"  Why  .  .  .  why,  that's  very  kind  of  you  .  .  ."  he 
stammered.  Into  the  Doctor's  eyes  came  a  glint  of 
greater  interest ;  not  in  amusement  at  the  oddly  formal 
response,  but  in  compassion  for  something  not  yet 
manifest.     He  put  out  his  hand  instinctively. 

"  Not  kind  at  all  —  it's  selfish,"  he  said.  "  I  need 
company.  Good  company.  Drop  your  hat  somewhere 
and  come  in." 

"You're  not  busy?" 

"  Busily  composing  my  mind,"  said  the  Doctor.  He 
ushered  Hilliard  into  the  comfortable  old  study  and 
motioned  towards  a  squat  little  smoking  stand.  "  All 
kinds  of  poison  there,"  he  said.  "  Cigar  —  cigarettes 
—  pipe  tobacco.     Suit  yourself." 

Hilliard  laughed  affectedly. 

"You    call   it   poison.''     And   you    a   doctor  —  and 

smoking?  '* 

219 


ggO  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

"  Ah,  but  it's  the  pleasantest  poison  there  is.  .  ,  , 
I'm  always  having  to  explain  that  to  Carol.  •  .  . 
Matches?  Well,  what  have  jou  been  doing  to  your- 
self? " 

"  I?  "  Hilhard  didn't  look  at  him.  "  Nothing  im- 
portant, Doctor." 

"But  that's  not  quite  true,  is  it?"  The  tone  was 
gentle,  but  it  filled  Hilliard  with  portentous  qualms. 
"  You  see,  my  boy,  you're  one  of  those  transparent 
people  who  carry  the  burden  of  their  discontent  where 
every  one  else  can  see  it.  You've  been  enjoying  a  little 
attack  of  insomnia,  haven't  you?  " 

Hilliard  winced. 

"  Why  —  yes.     As  a  matter  of  fact  — " 

The  Doctor  attempted  a  smoke  ring,  and  smiled  at 
the  dismal  failure. 

"  I'm  sorry.     Business  worries?  " 

"  Why  —  in  a  way,  yes." 

The  Doctor  achieved  a  perfect  circlet,  and  beamed 
at  it. 

"  Something  else?  " 

"  A  good  deal  else,"  said  Hilliard,  abstracted.  "  Bui 
that's  no  reason  for  me  to  bother  you  with  it.  I 
didn't  know  it  was  so  apparent." 

Silence. 

"  It's  not  my  habit,"  said  the  Doctor  presently,  "  to 
offer  any  advice  unless  I'm  asked  for  it.  Gratuitous 
advice  never  did  anybody  an}'  good.  And  nobody  takes 
it  unless  it  costs  something  —  and  not  often  then  And 
I'm  neither  your  regular  physician  nor  your  confessor. 
But  if  I  had  to  make  a  diagnosis  at  this  present  minute 
I'd  saj'  that  you  need  a  preacher  a  great  deal  more  than 
you  do  a  doctor." 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  S21 

"  I  ...  I  do,"  said  Hilliard,  looking  up  sharply. 
"  Only  .  .  .  it's  out  of  the  question.  Just  personal 
things,  Doctor  —  nothing  I  can  very  well  talk  about." 

The  Doctor  made  no  immediate  rejoinder;  in  a  mo- 
ment or  two  he  took  a  pamphlet  from  his  desk,  and 
fingered  it  thoughtfully. 

"  Here's  a  little  article,"  he  said,  "  you  ought  to 
glance  over  some  time,  even  if  I  did  write  it.  It's  a 
reprint  from  a  medical  journal,  but  it  isn't  about  medi- 
cine. It's  about  psychology  —  I  hate  that  word,  but 
it's  chained  fast  to  my  profession,  so  I  have  to  use  it. 
I  don't  think  it  could  possibly  do  you  the  least  harm. 
It  concerns  exercise." 

"  Exercise !  "  said  Hilliard,  dubiously. 

The  Doctor  nodded  assent. 

"  I  wonder  if  it  ever  occurred  to  you,"  he  said,  "  that 
the  effect  of  exercise  on  the  human  being  is  mighty  con- 
sistent. All  it  does  is  to  increase  capacity,  but  the 
right  sort  of  it  can  increase  any  kind  of  capacity. 
Muscles,  for  instance,  increase  in  bulk  ...  or  take  the 
voice ;  that  gains  strength,  quality,  flexibility.  Or  even 
character  .  .  ."  The  Doctor  was  intent  on  a  wisp 
of  smoke.  "  Well,  the  character  is  just  as  much  a 
part  of  the  human  being  as  the  voice  or  the  biceps." 
He  regarded  Hilliard  paternally.  "  Didn't  you  ever 
feel  your  own  character  growing  round  and  sweet  and 
sound  by  exercising  it  —  in  the  interest  of  other  peo- 
ple?" 

"  Perhaps  I  did,  but  .  .  ." 

"  Or,"  said  the  Doctor,  "  felt  it  growing  the  opposite 
by  the  exercise  of  the  emotions  of  hate  or  fear.?  It's 
rather  a  hobby  of  mine."  Here  he  gave  the  pamphlet 
to  Hilliard.     "  This  little  essay  is  more  of  a  preachment 


^22  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

than  a  medical  document,"  he  said,  "  but  at  least  I 
know  there's  nothing  in  it  to  hurt  you,  because  I 
wrote  it  myself.  It's  a  sort  of  plea  to  cultivate  all  the 
more  peaceful  emotions  by  giving  them  regular  train- 
ing, and  to  let  the  distressing  ones  die  of  slow  atrophy 
by  not  giving  them  any  exercise."     He  smoked  placidly. 

"  You'd  make  it  an  ideal  world  to  live  in,"  said  Hil- 
liard  moodily.  "  But  you  don't  seem  to  take  into 
consideration  the  fact  that  our  ideals  are  always  a 
darned  long  way  ahead  of  us.  Too  long  to  be  much 
use  —  practically." 

The  Doctor  smiled  faintly. 

"  If  they  weren't,"  he  said,  "  they  wouldn't  be  ideals. 
The  whole  point  is  to  try  to  grow  up  to  them,  and  to 
realize  all  the  time  that  you  can't !  Because  they,  too, 
grow  by  exercise  .  .  .  it's  a  habit  they  have.  And 
that's  the  way  it  should  be,  isn't  it?  Perpetual  strug- 
gle, perpetual  improvement,  but  never  perfection." 

Hilliard  caught  his  breath. 

"  Something  else  that's  futile,  then  .   .   ." 

"  No,  I  don't  think  so."  The  Doctor's  denial  was 
very  gentle.  "  Because  if  we  were  ever  capable  of 
reaching  those  ideals,  we'd  probably  be  so  well  satisfied 
with  ourselves  that  we'd  stop  trying  .  .  .  and  that 
in  itself  would  seem  to  come  near  proving  us  incapable 
of  any  further  effort."  He  gave  Hilliard  a  glance  of 
deep  comprehension.  "  Like  you,"  he  went  on,  "  I've 
never  lived  one  single  day  up  to  my  ideals  of  what  I 
ought  to  be,  and  do.  I  never  expect  to.  It's  too  much 
for  any  one  man  to  expect.  And  also,  like  you,  when  I 
drop  so  far  below  my  own  possibilities,  it  gets  on  my 
nerves  .  ,  .  I'm  blue  .  .  .  melancholy  .  .  .  introspec- 
tive .  .  .  black  .  .  .  and  all  the  rest  of  it.     But  —  I'm 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  223 

helped  by  the  desire  to  try  again.  .  .  .  Aren't  you?  " 

Hilliard,  very  worn,  very  baffled,  very  wretched,  and 
somewhat  more  unmanned  by  the  Doctor's  kind  phi- 
losophy than  by  all  the  buffets  of  fortune  which  had 
preceded  it,  found  this  analj^sis  of  human  nature  almost 
a  tangible  support  to  lean  on ;  found  the  Doctor's  quiet 
sympathy  almost  a  material  bulwark.  He  drew^  a  very 
deep  breath,  and  was  relaxed  a  trifle.   .   .   . 

"  Yes,"  he  said.  "  Yes,  Doctor."  A  new  conception 
of  his  own  future  course  of  action  was  slowly  taking 
form  in  his  mind. 

"  Now,  your  own  trouble,"  said  Dr.  Durant,  "  isn't 
physical  as  much  as  it  is  spiritual.  It's  nothing  but 
taut  nerves.  It's  nothing  but  your  struggle  against 
the  restraints  you  put  upon  yourself.  How  do  I  know? 
You've  told  me  so  .  .  .  every  time  I've  seen  you.  It's 
in  your  face,  my  boy.  It's  in  your  eyes.  Constantly. 
And  I  won't  prescribe  for  you  until  you  ask  me,  but 
I'll  make  you  a  present  of  my  pamphlet,  if  you'll  prom- 
ise to  have  the  courage  to  read  it.  It  isn't  technical 
—  take  my  word  for  it.     And  will  you  promise?  " 

"Yes,    Doctor,"    said   Hilliard,   "I'll    read    it." 

"  Good !  And  let  me  know  what  you  get  out  of  it. 
And  it  looks  as  though  the  conference  is  about  over 
.  .  .  because  if  that  isn't  Carol  coming  up  the  steps, 
my  ears  aren't  half  as  good  as  they  used  to  be." 

Both  men  were  on  their  feet  as  she  came  in,  swirling. 

"  Oh ! "  she  cried  to  Hilliard.  "  I  didn't  know  you 
were  coming  up  tonight !     Suppose  I'd  missed  you  !  " 

He  merely  smiled,  and  made  no  answer;  nor  did  he 
speak  to  her  until  after  the  Doctor,  protesting  a  sud- 
den desire  for  solitude,  had  waved  them  hospitably  out 
of  the  study  into  the  living  room.     Carol  was  in  the 


224.  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

old  familiar  corner  of  the  sofa;  Milliard  was  standing 
by  the  fireplace,  peering  down  into  the  empty  grate. 
He  coughed  harshly,  and  an  expression  of  utter  hope- 
lessness crept  into  his  eyes.     He  turned  abruptly. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "  jujt  how  much  would  you  have 
cared  if  you  had?  " 

There  was  a  stately  old  lamp  standing  at  height 
behind  the  sofa ;  its  shadows  were  gracious  and  its  light, 
as  it  crept  through  a  shade  of  painted  vellum,  touched 
Carol  softly,  in  a  delicacy  of  radiance  which  was  in- 
finitely caressing.  She  seemed  herself  to  glow  in  re- 
sponse to  it;  she  was  a  tender  radiance  all  by  herself; 
she  was  palpitatingly  young  and  living  and  vital,  and 
yet  she  gave  Hilliard,  as  he  turned  to  stare  gloomily 
down  at  her,  an  unusual  impression  of  phj^sical  aloof- 
ness, as  though  the  flesh  were  reticent  of  its  charms, 
and  conscious  in  its  modesty.  Her  hands  were  lying 
idle  in  her  lap;  she  bent  her  head,  and  viewed  them 
studiously. 

"  Why,  I  should  have  cared  a  great  deal,"  she  said. 
"  I'm  always  disappointed  when  I  miss  seeing  a  friend 
of  mine.  What  makes  you  so  pessimistic,  all  of  a 
sudden.''  " 

Hilliard  reddened,  and  his  e3'es  grew  brighter.  He 
resumed  his  survey  of  the  fireplace. 

"  Friendship !  "  he  said  tardily.  "  What  an  accor- 
dion-like sort  of  thing  that  is  !  " 

"  Why,  Mr.  HilHard !  "  Her  tone  was  at  the  same 
time  interrogatory  and  reproachful. 

"  Oh,  I'm  not  speaking  of  you*'  he  said.  "  Only 
of  the  thing  itself.  .  .  .  It's  big  or  little,  close  or  dis- 
tant .  .  .  and  it  hasn't  anything  to  say  about  it  .  .  . 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  ^5 

You'll  have  to  excuse  me  —  I  was  thinking  out 
loud  .  .  ." 

"  Please  do !  "  she  said.  "  You  were  on  the  way  to 
be  interesting.     Think  out  loud  some  more." 

Hilliard  glanced  sharply  at  her. 

"  Don't  laugh  at  me ! "  he  said,  almost  roughly. 
"  For  Heaven's  sake,  don't  you  know  that  the  one  time 
you  shouldn't  laugh  at  a  man  is  when  he  deserves  it.f*  " 

Carol's  attitude  was  vaguely  less  suggestive  of 
ease. 

"  I  wasn't  laughing  at  you,"  she  said,  "  truly.  But 
what  you  said  was  so  ...  so  queer." 

"  Oh,  yes."  Hilliard's  accent  was  very  flat.  "  I 
suppose  it  was.     It  must  have  been." 

She  looked  at  him  keenly,  and  was  still  a  trifle  less 
calm.  Her  natural  impulse  was  to  soothe  him,  to  di- 
vert him,  and  yet  she  felt  intuitively  that  he  was  in  one 
of  those  illogical  moods  in  which  no  satisfaction  is  so 
great  as  that  of  suff'ering  undisturbed. 

"  You're  very  unhappy  tonight,  aren't  you.'*  " 

"  No-o  .  .  .  it's  not  that,  so  much.  .  .  .  I've  been 
talking  to  your  father." 

"  He  hasn't  made  you  this  way,  has  he?  "  she  asked, 
sweetly  humorous.  In  the  next  instant,  as  their  eyes 
met,  she  expected  to  be  rebuked  again  for  levity,  but 
he  forgave  her,  and  showed  his  irritation  only  by  his 
abruptness. 

"  Hardly !  But  he  set  me  thinking  .  .  .  and  I  had 
plenty  to  think  about  even  before  that.  Heaven  knows! 
...  I  always  seem  to  be  more  or  less  up  in  the  air 
when  I  come  to  see  you,  don't  I?  The  last  time  we 
talked  about  friendship  — " 

"  But   that   was   at  least   a  month   ago,"   she   said 


226  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

hastily,  "  and  in  the  meantime,  you've  been  just  as  nice 
and  cheerful  as  anybody.  I  thought  you  were  all  over 
your  troubles." 

"  Cheerfulness  wasn't  what  you  asked  for."  Hilliard 
swallowed  hard.  "  I  ...  I  came  up  here.  Miss  Du- 
rant,  to  have  a  really  serious  talk  with  you  .  .  .  really 
serious.  It's  been  delayed  too  long  already.  It  took 
me  two  solid  days  to  get  my  courage  up  to  it.  And 
.  .  .  and  now  I'm  here,  I  don't  even  know  how  to  be- 
gin." 

She  carefully  interlaced  the  fingers  of  one  hand  with 
those  of  the  other ;  her  heart  was  beating  storm  warn- 
ings, but  she  realized  that  she  had  arrived  at  a  con- 
tingency which  couldn't  be  avoided,  and  therefore,  she 
arrived  as  quietly  as  she  could. 

"  Why  not  at  the  beginning,  Mr.  Hilliard?  " 

"  Because  I  can't  —  and  that's  what  makes  it  so 
awkward."  He  scowled  heavily  into  the  vacant  fire- 
place, and  held  out  his  palms  with  a  mechanic  gesture 
as  though  to  warm  them  at  an  imaginary  blaze.  "  You 
know,"  he  said  absently,  "  your  father  is  a  very 
extraordinary  man.     Very." 

The  compliment  to  the  Doctor  had  its  invariable  ef- 
fect upon  her ;  she  glowed  under  it. 

"  I've  always  known  that  .  .  .  I'm  glad  you  realize 
it,  too." 

He  stood  erect,  and  faced  her.  "  I  do  ...  it  came 
to  me,  when  I  was  talking  to  him,  what  a  great  privilege 
it  must  be  for  you  to  have  his  advice  —  and  his  sympa- 
thy .  .  .  when  you  need  it.  And  there  are  so  few  —  so 
incredibly  few  —  people  who  make  you  feel  like  that. 
One  in  a  thousand.  Or,  one  in  ten  thousand.  People 
who  lift  you  clear  out  of  your  trivial  little  self  —  and 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  227 

make  you  think  in  terms  of  principles,  and  not  of  your 
own  selfish  ideas  —  and  still  don't  jDreach.  ...  It  must 
be  a  privilege." 

"  It  isn't  only  for  me,"  she  said.  "  He  has  enough 
sympathy  for  any  one  who  asks  for  it.  He  isn't  very 
worldly  —  you've  noticed  that?  No  —  in  some  re- 
spects he's  the  most  innocent  man  I've  ever  known  in 
my  life!  He  can't  believe  that  anybody,  or  anything, 
is  really  bad  .  .  .  and  perhaps  that's  why  people  come 
to  him  so.  Of  course,  it  may  be  that  just  because  he's 
my  father,  I  — " 

"  No."  Hilliard  shook  his  head.  "  I've  seen  a  good 
many  fathers,  and  next  to  mine.  .  .  .  My  own  was  a 
wonderful  man,  too,  but  I  never  appreciated  him.  And 
seeing  the  Doctor  has  made  me  wish  .  .  .  oh,  it's  too 
childish  to  talk  about !  " 

"  If  you  were  really  as  old  as  you  try  to  be,"  she  said 
gently,  "  you'd  know  that  it  isn't  ever  childish  to  be 
serious  about  such  things  as  that.  On  the  contrary! 
And  yet  there  was  a  time  when  you  wanted  me  to  think 
you  were  well  over  thirty.  Why,  Mr.  Hilliard,  you're  a 
hoy!  "  Nevertheless,  she  regarded  him  .  .  .  not  as  one 
would  regard  a  mere  youth,  but  with  appreciably  more 
uncertainty. 

Hilliard  had  flushed  warmly. 

"  That  was  when  I  wanted  you  to  think  a  good  many 
things  that  weren't  true." 

"About  you?"  Her  inflection  was  an  invitation  to 
further  confidences,  and  it  drew  Hilliard  incontinently 
along  the  path  he  had  planned  —  and  feared  —  to  take. 

"  Some  of  them,"  he  admitted.  "  And  some  were 
about  you.  The  fact  is,  I  .  .  .  I've  come  on  a  peculiar 
errand."     He  cleared  his  throat  violently ;  his  eyes  sud- 


228  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

denlj  adored  her.  "  I've  come  to  straighten  all  that 
out.  Please  don't  imagine  I've  suddenly  gone  crazy 
or  ...  or  anything  .  .  .  and  please  don't  take  any- 
thing I  say  tonight  to  mean  weakness  .  .  .  because, 
honestly,  I've  thought  about  this  so  much  that  it's  rather 
disintegrated  me  .  .  .  but  I've  got  to  tell  you  some 
things  I  don't  want  to."  His  shoulders  squared  in 
resolution ;  and  at  the  look  of  pain  in  his  eyes,  of  pain 
and  despair,  her  whole  womanliness  went  out  to  him  — 
and  had  to  be  crushed,  because  she  was,  after  all,  a 
woman.  "  The  first  .  .  .  and  I'm  going  to  stand  just 
here  to  say  it,  please  don't  be  frightened  ...  I  —  I 
don't  know  if  I  even  dare  to  say  it  ,  .  .  now  .  .  ." 
His  arms  went  beseechingly  out  to  her  —  and  fell  limp. 
"  I  haven't  even  the  right  to  think  of  it  any  more,"  he 
said  wretchedly. 

Her  look  to  him  was  first  of  astonishment  at  his 
surrender,  and,  after  that,  of  swift,  ineffable  pity  for 
the  unnamed  forces  which  were  influencing  him. 
Womanliness  hung  in  the  balance ;  and  then,  in  a  flash 
of  perfect  comprehension  of  his  plight,  she  knc^  that 
she  could  speak  to  him  without  reserve.  He  had  passed 
beyond  the  bounds  of  conventionality;  she  put  herself, 
mentally,  at  his  side. 

"  If  it  hurts  you  to  say  it,"  she  said,  "  I've  known 
you've  been  .  .  .  fond  of  me.  How  could  I  help  it? 
And  why  shouldn't  you  have  the  right  to  think  of  it.'' 
Why  shouldn't  you  have  the  right  to  be  ^^ourself  ?  Why 
shouldn't  3'ou  have  the  right  to  talk  to  me,  and  to  ex- 
pect me  to  hear  you,  and  try  to  understand.?  You 
haven't  thought  that  my  father  is  the  only  one  of  us  to 
do  that,  have  you.''"     The  reproof  was  exquisite. 

"  Ever  since  that  day  ...  the  time  you  played  to 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

me,"  he  said,  "  I've  fought  against  it  —  fought  like  the 
very  devil,  and  — " 

"  I've  known  that,  too  —  and  you've  come  to  see  me 
so  seldom.  I'd  hoped  at  least  that  you'd  give  yourself 
the  chance  you  said  you  wanted." 

He  stiffened  heroicall3^  "  You  forget  there  was  a 
condition  ...  an  imperative  condition  .  .  .  and  it's 
only  fair  to  you  to  tell  you  that  it's  a  condition  I  can't 
ever  meet.  Ever.  That's  why  I'm  here.  I  had  to  tell 
you.  And  even  now,  I  might  not  have  been  strong 
enough  to  say  it  ...  I  might  not  have  had  the  courage 
even  after  I  had  come  to  you.  ...  I  might  have  gone 
on  drifting  and  drifting,  and  hating  myself  for  being  a 
contemptible  coward  ...  if  it  hadn't  been  for  the 
Doctor  .  .  .  just  now,  before  you  came  in." 

There  was  a  profound  stillness. 

"  Can't  you  explain?  "  she  said  at  last.  "  I  wish  you 
would.  You're  making  me  feel  very  badly,  Mr.  Hil- 
liard.     You  owe  it  to  me  — " 

He  had  to  exert  his  utmost  will  to  make  the  beginning. 
"  All  I  can  explain  is  that  I've  made  another  mis- 
take .  .  ."  After  the  first  great  effort,  the  words  came 
tumbling  passionately,  unchecked.  "  It  would  have 
been  so  infinitely  better  for  both  of  us  if  I'd  never  met 
you  at  all.  .  .  .  My  life  has  been  a  whole  series  of  mis- 
takes ;  this  is  the  worst.  .  .  .  The  worst.  ...  Of 
course,  it  would  be  absurdly  simple  if  I  were  going  away 
from  Syracuse,  if  I  were  going  to  leave  you  here,  and 
go  —  but  I'm  not.  I'm  going  to  stay  here.  And  I 
can't  think  it's  decent  not  to  tell  you  now  that  if  you 
.  .  .  knew  all  I  know  .  .  .  what  I've  been,  what  I've 
done  .  .  .  you  wouldn't  marry  me  if  I  were  the  last  man 
left    to    ask    you!  .  .  ."     He    gestured    impatiently. 


230  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

"  We're  childishly  hopeful  sometimes  ...  all  of  us 
.  .  .  hoping  for  what  we  know  is  impossible  .  .  .  what 
we  know  always  will  be  impossible.  .  .  .  I've  been  like 
that  —  and  what  I  hoped  was  that  you  could  take  me 
on  the  basis  of  what  I've  been  for  the  last  few  months 
.  .  .  since  July  .  .  .  because  that's  the  way  I  take 
myself.  Just  a  man  —  a  man  —  like  Jack  Armstrong. 
I  hoped  we  could  simply  eliminate  the  past,  and  ...  I 
can't  get  away  from  it.  It's  on  my  heels  every  minute. 
It's  what  I  am,  now  .  .  .  but  if  I  went  much  further 
back  than  that,  you  and  the  Doctor  would  both  think 
just  what  I  do  about  myself  .  .  .  and  I'd  have  to  say 
good-bj^e  to  you  anyway  .  .  .  just  as  I'm  doing  to- 
night. I  hope  you  can  see  that  I'm  not  telling  all  this 
to  you  from  any  other  motive  except  to  be  quite  honest 
with  you.  Quite  honest  —  for  once.  It  may  be  that 
nothing  else  could  possibly  show  how  much  I  do  care  for 
you  .  .  .  that  I'm  willing  to  save  you  from  another 
minute's  mis  judgment  of  what  I  am.  And  —  and  I 
care  too  much  about  you  to  let  you  live  another  day 
without  knowing  that  I  can't  go  on  —  it's  over.  .  .  . 
I'm  not  fit  to  be  even  your  friend.     That's  all." 

She  sat  motionless.  Milliard  had  turned  back  to  the 
fireplace. 

"  Were  you  as  bad  ...  as  that.''  "  she  whispered. 

"  Once,"  he  said  bitterly,  over  his  shoulder,  "  I  used 
to  be  a  gentleman.     But  that  was  a  long  time  ago." 

She  raised  her  head.  "  Nothing  could  ever  make  me 
believe,"  she  said,  "  that  you  haven't  always  been  just 
as  I've  known  you  —  since  July.  Nothing  can,  and 
nothing  will.  What  you  may  think  about  yourself 
makes  no  difference  to  me.     /  — " 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  ^31 

"  Don't ! "  he  said,  and  his  tone  was  agonized. 
"  Don't  you  see  — " 

"  I  don't  believe  you,"  she  said  steadily. 

Hilliard's  voice  was  unstable  with  his  great  bitter- 
ness of  failure.  "  You  flatter  me,"  he  said  harshly. 
"  And  besides  —  you're  wrong." 

She  was  up,  and  beside  him,  smiling  bravely  into  his 
eyes,  and  he  was  flogging  his  will  to  keep  his  hungry 
arms  from  snatching  her,  from  sweeping  her  close  to 
him,  and  .  .  . 

"What  do  you  think  women  are?"  she  demanded, 
with  sweet  imperiousness.  "  Nothing  but  marble 
statues  —  or  putty  ones?  Just  made  to  stand  around 
and  let  the  world  go  past,  without  having  anything  to 
say  about  it?  " 

He  retreated  to  the  wall  in  self-defence.  "  Don't ! 
Don't!  I'm  the  one  who's  driven  myself  into  this  cor- 
ner —  not  you  !  " 

"  But  you  don't  have  to  stay  in  it  always,  do  you?  " 

He  stared  at  her  in  mystification. 

"  Don't  be  silly,"  she  said,  "  and  don't  be  unreason- 
able ;  I'm  not !  "  She  touched  his  sleeve ;  his  expression 
was  unchanged.  "  Don't  make  me  think  you  are  un- 
reasonable !  "  she  said  compassionately.  "  If  you're 
not  satisfied,  why  can't  you  make  yourself  what  you 
want  to  be?  Instead  of  brooding  over  the  past,  that 
you  can't  help,  why  don't  you  think  about  things  you 
can  help?  Why  can't  you  go  ahead  a  little  longer,  and 
do  a  little  more,  and  try  to  be  happy  as  you  go  along? 
Living  is  about  all  there  is  to  live  for,  isn't  it?  " 

He  drew  in  his  breath  perilously.  "  But  I'm  letting 
you  go,"  he  said,  dazed. 


282  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

She  stamped  her  foot  in  tremulous  severity,  "  No, 
you're  not;  I  won't  allow  it!  Can't  you  see  why?  Do 
I  have  to  tell  you  that  ?  Well  .  .  .  because  I  want  you 
for  a  friend  even  if  you  don't  want  me." 

"  Want  you !  "  he  cried,  and  remembered  himself,  and 
froze  to  immobility.  "  Oh  —  as  a  friend !  "  The  note 
of  hopelessness  was  in  his  voice  again;  he  thought  to 
detect  a  trace  of  Platonism  in  her  statement  —  and  he 
was  cruelly  put  in  mind  of  Armstrong.  Armstrong  — 
who  had  no  closeted  skeleton  to  rattle  its  grewsome 
bones  in  solitude. 

"  Surely,  as  a  friend  —  what  else  did  you  think  I 
meant  .'^  " 

The  young  man  shook  his  head.   , 

"  I  don't  know.  Only  I  came  up  here  to  tell  3'^ou  I 
haven't  any  right  to  your  friendship.  I  can't  tell  j^ou 
why.  ...  I  haven't  as  much  callousness  as  all  that 
.  .  .  but  if  I  did  tell  you,  your  last  atom  of  faith  in  me 
would  be  gone.  And  you  can't  afford  to  have  me  even 
for  a  friend  —  now  that  I've  said  that,  can  you?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  said  steadfastly,  "  I  can  afford  it." 

"  When  .  .  .  when  I've  told  you  .  .  ."  His  lips 
were  parted  in  amazedness,  his  eyes  roved  dully.  "  I 
can't  under  —  ...  I'm  telling  you  I'm  not  worth  the 
powder  to  blow  me  to  Hades."  He  laughed  oddly. 
"  That's  proved  already,  over  and  over  again.  .  .  . 
Don't  you  understand?  .  .  .  Carol  .  .  ."  His  voice 
broke.  "  Why,  Carol  .  .  .  I'm  not  fit  to  talk  to  you. 
That's  proved,  too.  .  .  .  I'm  proving  it  now!  I'm 
saying  it  —  don't  you  hear  me?  I'm  saying  it  now. 
And  you  — "  He  put  his  hand  to  his  forehead,  and 
brushed  back  his  hair,  which  was  strangely  wet.     "  I 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  2SS 

can't  make  it  any  plainer,"  he  said,  with  helpless 
finality. 

"  No  matter  what's  happened,"  she  said  earnestly, 
"  I  can't  believe  it  isn't  coming  out  all  right.  I'm  not 
just  a  fair-weather  sort  of  person;  some  day  you'll 
reahze  that.  And  I  know  it'll  all  be  quite  right  for 
you  in  the  end  —  because  you're  going  to  make  it  so.  I 
know  you  are.  So  if  you'll  just  keep  on  living,  and 
working,  and  trying  .  ,  .  and  .  .  ."  Here  her  eyes 
were  so  appealing  that  his  own  dimmed  to  behold  them. 
"  And  3^ou  haven't  been  so  very  dreadful  after  all,  have 
you?" 

Hilliard  retreated  once  again,  not  trusting  those 
hungry,  lawless  arms  of  his. 

"  I  happened  to  read  some  of  the  Book  of  Proverbs 
the  other  day,"  he  said,  thickly.  "  There's  a  whole 
page  there  I  don't  think  I'll  ever  forget.  Did  you  ever 
run  across  that  part  ...  *  The  fear  of  the  wicked,  it 
shall  come  upon  hirriy  hut  the  desire  of  the  righteous 
shall  he  granted  'f  " 

"  Yes."     Her  eyes  were  frightened. 

**  I'm  just  wondering,"  said  Hilliard,  with  a  terrible 
smile,  which  was  entirely  devoid  of  mirth,  "  if  a  man 
happens  to  be  in  a  .  .  .  a  sort  of  transition  period,  you 
know  —  half  way  between  ...  I  wonder  what's  com- 
ing to  him.  I  wonder  what  is  coming  to  him.  ...  I 
wonder  if  the  whirlwind  doesn't  get  him  both  ways." 

After  the  street  door  had  closed  behind  him,  Carol 
went  slowly  along  the  corridor  to  the  Doctor's  study 
and  knocked,  out  of  sheer  habit.  His  pleasant  baritone 
came  to  her  reassuringly. 


2S4f  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

"Yes?" 

"  Are  jou  busy,  dear  ?  "  Few  men,  on  hearing  her 
voice,  with  that  suggestive  catch  in  it,  would  have  con- 
fessed to  a  previous  engagement. 

"  Not  when  you're  around,"  said  the  Doctor,  appear- 
ing on  the  threshold.  His  tone  altered  suddenly. 
"  What's  wrong.''  "  he  said. 

"  Daddy,"  said  Carol,  "  he's  gone.  .  .  .  You  saw 
him,  too  .  .  .  what  is  it  ?  What  is  it  ?  "  She  was 
trembling  violently;  the  big  Doctor  gathered  her  up 
in  his  arms  without  ceremony  and  carried  her  over  to 
his  favourite  leather  chair. 

"  Fires  burning,"  said  Dr.  Durant,  quietl3\  "  Burn- 
ing and  burning  and  burning  .  .  .  like  the  ones  you've 
seen  down  in  the  blast  furnaces  .  .  .  white  hot,  and 
crucible  steel  comes  out  of  them  .  .  .  strong  enough  to 
make  permanent  things  out  of  .  .  ."  He  smoothed  her 
hair,  and  she  sighed  shiver ingly,  and  lay  still.  "  And 
the  steel  lasts  ten  thousand  times  as  long  as  the  fires 
that  made  it.  I  don't  know  what's  blowing  the  flames, 
dear,  but  he'U  do  —  he'll  do." 


XVIII 

HALF  way   down   James   Street,   Milliard,   driving 
his  runabout  in  utter  disregard  of  the  traffic  rules, 
was  reliving,  moment  by  moment,  and  word  by  word, 
the  two  epochal  conversations  of  the  earlier  evening. 
He  had  gone  to  Carol  with  the  sturdy  intention  of  be- 
traying himself  manfully  and  in  detail ;  but  in  the  Doc- 
tor's study  he  had  perceived  another,  and  what  seemed 
to  him  a  more  unselfish  method  of  achieving  the  same 
end.     He  had  fancied  that  if  he  could  preserve  intact 
the  memory  of  Dicky  Morgan,  if  he  could  prevent  the 
world  —  and  especially  that  part  of  it  personal  to  the 
Cullens  and  Durants  —  from  knowing  what  a  despicable 
thing  it  was  that  Dicky  Morgan  had  done,  he  could  save 
a  modicum  of  pain  for  those  who  would  otherwise  be 
most  affected.     That  is,  he  could  save  their  pride,  and 
their  faith.     This  conception  had  interfered  to  make 
his  talk  with  Carol  somewhat  aimless  ...  he  had  been 
under  the  dual  necessity  of  damning  Hilliard,  without 
implicating  Morgan.     And  how  bunglingly  he  had  ac- 
complished it !     How  inefficiently  —  how  unsuccessfully ! 
But  it  was  better  to  have  done  it  bunglingly  than  not 
at  all.     Few  people  would  sorrow  for  the  crashing  down- 
fall of  Henry  Hilliard,  but  there  were  scores  to  grieve 
—  and  notably  the  Cullens  and  Durants  —  if  the  name 
of  Dicky  Morgan  were  dragged  back  from  glory  into 
sordidness.     And   so,   to   anticipate   the  whirlwind,   he 
had  tried  to  prepare  Carol  for  the  crash,  and  she,  in  all 

235 


236  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

her  sympathy,  had  made  the  future  harder  still  for  him, 
because  she  had  offered  him  hope. 

On  impulse,  he  checked  the  speed  of  the  car,  and 
swerved  to  the  left;  he  was  actuated  by  a  sudden  de- 
sire to  run  over  to  the  University  Club  and  see  Arm- 
strong. He  had  no  definite  plan  as  to  what  he  should 
say  or  do ;  he  merely  craved  to  meet  his  rival  face  to 
face,  and  have  it  out  with  him.  Man  to  man  —  and  this 
time  there  should  be  no  bungling. 

Mr.  Armstrong,  it  seemed,  was  in  the  library  .  .  . 
and  would  come  down  directly.  Indeed,  he  followed 
almost  on  the  heels  of  the  messenger. 

"  Why,  hello,  Hilliard,"  he  said,  rather  stiltedly. 
"  Did  you  want  to  see  me  ?  That's  too  bad  —  I've  got 
to  leave  here  in  just  a  couple  of  seconds  to  catch  my 
train.     I'm  going  West  tonight." 

"  I'll  take  you  over,"  said  Hilliard,  shortly. 
"  That'll  save  you  a  minute  or  two  —  and  give  us  time 
to  chat.     My  car's  outside." 

"  Why  —  under  the  circumstances  .  .  ."  Arm- 
strong's glance  was  diverted.  "  I  don't  think  I  can  let 
you  do  that.  Take  me  over,  I  mean.  It's  mighty  kind 
of  you,  but  — " 

"  What  circumstances.?*  "  Hilliard,  jumping  at  con- 
clusions, was  wildly  apprehensive. 

Armstrong  looked  him  full  in  the  eyes.  "  I'm  going 
West  on  a  business  trip,"  he  said  slowly,  "  and  I  don't 
think  it  would  be  very  appropriate  for  you  to  — " 

"  Oh  —  you  are !  "  Hilliard  felt  streaks  of  ice  cours- 
ing along  his  spine.     "  How  far  West?  " 

Armstrong  consulted  his  watch  nervously. 

"  Hilliard,"  he  said,  "  I  like  to  do  things  out  in  the 
open.     There  are  just  two  reasons  why  I  don't  think 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  237 

vou  reaUy  want  to  invite  me  to  ride  down  to  the 
station  with  you.  If  I'm  wrong,  it's  up  to  you  to  say 
so  One  of  'em  is  that  Rufus  Waring  has  asked  me  to 
stop  ofF  at  Butte  —  I'm  going  a  good  deal  further  than 
that  —  and  look  up  some  matters  for  him.^  I  guess  you 
know  as  well  as  I  do  what  they  are.  ..." 

HiUiard    fumbled    his    hat.     "I    see.     And  — the 

other  reason.'"  . 

Armstrong  suddenly  straightened ;  and  his  voice  had  a 
curious  ring  to  it -a  ring  which  electrified  H.lhard, 
and  awoke  the  most  petrifying  alarms  within  him. 

"But  does  one  ordinarily  mention  —  certain  kinds 
of  people  — in  a  men's  club?  I  don't  know  how  it  is 
where  you  come  from  —  but  here,  we  don't." 

HUliard  smiled  vapidly;  it  was  the  utmost  perversity 
of  emotion,  for  he  knew  now  why  Carol  had  been  so 
explicit  in  her  sympathy  ...  why  she  had  been  so 
meticulous  to  let  him  realize  that  she  wanted  hmi  as  a 
friend;  only  as  a  friend  ...  and  here  was  Armstrong, 
concealing  with  difficulty  the  triumph  he  was  hinting 

*  '"No,"  he  said  harshly.  "  One  doesn't,  but  there 
isn't  anything  to  keep  us  from^  mentioning  anybody  we 
like  outside  the  club,  is  there?  " 

"  Why  —  not  that  I  — "  .,„■„•     j 

«  Then  I'll  take  you  down  anyway,"  said  Milliard. 
«  And  let's  see  if  we  can't  try  to  understand  each  other." 
It  took  a  brave  man  to  accept  the  offer,  for  H.lhard  s 
eves  held  httle  to  recommend  their  owner  as  a  prudent 
driver,  or  as  a  very  pleasant  companion.  Armstrong, 
however,  was  already  putting  on  his  hat. 

They  had  driven  over  to  the  station  in  silence.     HU- 


^38  THE  J\IAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

Hard,  parking  the  runabout  carefully,  turned  to  his 
passenger. 

"  We've  got  ten  good  minutes,"  he  said.  "  Your 
train  isn't  even  in  yet  —  go  ahead  and  talk." 

Armstrong  shrugged  liis  shoulders.  "  Don't  you 
think  it  would  be  a  little  better  for  you  to  do  the  talk- 
ing yourself  ?  " 

"I.'*"  Hilhard  laughed  cheerlessly.  "Anything  I 
could  say  would  be  pretty  conventional  —  under  the 
circumstances." 

Armstrong,  after  a  momentary  delay,  put  out  a  con- 
ciliating hand.  "  Old  man,"  he  said,  "  let's  play  the 
rest  of  this  out  like  two  sensible  people.  We  won't  get 
anywhere  by  bickering,  and  I  suppose  it  won't  do  any 
harm  for  us  to  put  all  the  cards  on  the  table,  and  know 
exactly  where  we  stand.  Of  course,  you  haven't  known 
me  very  long,  and  I  haven't  known  you  .  .  .  but  sup- 
pose, just  to  help  along  the  understanding,  we  take 
each  other  at  face  value." 

Hilliard  winced. 

"  Well  —  suppose  we  do.     Then  what.?  " 

"  Then  you  can't  hold  it  up  against  me  for  stopping 
off  at  Butte  on  my  way  out.  /  haven't  any  motive  in  it 
—  I  promised  to  do  it  as  a  favour  to  Rufe  Waring.  It 
isn't  a  personal  issue  at  all.  I  know  exactly  how  it 
must  appear  to  you,  but  .  .  .  I'm  not  that  sort  of  man, 
Hilhard.  I  wouldn't  have  dreamed  of  it  myself. 
That's  straight !  " 

The  masqucrader  regarded  him  earnestly  —  and 
yielded  to  his  evident  sincerity. 

"  Way  down  deep,"  lie  said,  at  length,  "  I  know 
you're  not,  but  .  .  .  what's  that  for?"  He  referred 
to    Armstrong's     outstretched    hand.     "  Oh !  .  .  .  all 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  S39 

right."  They  shook  hands  solemnly.  "  At  the  same 
time,  it  would  have  been  so  perfectly  natural  for  you  to 
feel  like  getting  whatever  leverage  you  could  — " 

"  There's  no  need  of  that  —  now,"  said  Armstrong. 
His  smile  was  proud  and  brilliant,  and  Hilliard  withered 
under  it. 

"  Well,  I  wasn't  sure."  ' 

"  I  don't  deny,"  said  Armstrong  slowly,  "  that  at 
first  sight  this  is  a  queer  thing  for  me  to  do  —  to  check 
up  your  property,  I  mean  —  when  you  and  I  have  had 
such  an  intimate  relationship  as  opponents.  And  I 
wouldn't  for  the  world  have  agreed  to  it  if  it  could  have 
had  the  slightest  connection  with  .  .  .  with  our  own 
private  affairs.  It  hasn't  —  it  can't  have.  I  give  you 
my  word  on  that ;  it's  been  settled  without  the  slightest 
reference  to  anything  else.  But  since  it  hasn't,  and 
since  Rufus  asked  me  as  a  favour  —  and  promised  to 
tell  3^ou  about  it  —  and  it's  absolutely  commercial  — " 

"  That's  enough.  I'm  glad  you're  going  to  do  it." 
Hilliard's  voice  was  gruff;  it  was  a  tribute  to  his  com- 
panion's code  of  ethics.  "  Know  anything  about  min- 
ing? " 

"  Not  a  thing.  But  I'm  to  go  to  a  law  firm  in 
Butte  —  and  of  course  it's  only  a  formality,  anyway. 
I'll  probably  find  it's  better  than  you  ever  claimed. 
But  Rufe  asked  me." 

"  I  see.     Well  —  now  about  this  other  matter   .   .   ." 

Armstrong  was  watching  the  West-bound  express  as 
it  felt  its  cautious  way  through  Railroad  Avenue  to 
the  station. 

"Yes?" 

Hilliard  was  suddenly  ashamed  of  himself;  he  was 
forced  to  concede  that  his  rival  had  the  advantage  of 


840  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

him  in  poise  and  aJtruism.  He  shook  himself  free  of  the 
savage  resentment  which  was  stealing  upon  him. 

"  We're  only  human  —  both  of  us.  Perhaps  —  un- 
der the  circumstances  —  the  best  thing  we  can  say  is  to 
say  nothing  .  .  .  except  that  I  wish  you  all  the  luck 
in  the  world.  I  don't  pretend  it  isn't  a  hard  thing  to 
say  —  but  I'm  trying  to  mean  it.  And  you  certainly 
deserve  it." 

"  And  to  you,"  said  Armstrong,  cheerfully.  "  And 
no  bad  feelings  on  either  side.  And  I  hope  your  mine 
makes  a  million  dollars  for  you." 

"Thanks,"  said  Hilliard,  grimly.  "I'll  need  it. 
But  don't  be  afraid  to  send  Rufus  your  honest  opinion 
—  will  you  ?  " 

"  No  —  and  I'll  send  it  to  you,  too.  That's  only 
fair.   .  .  .  I'd  better  be  starting." 

They  shook  hands  again  aci*oss  the  wheel, 

"  You're  a  good  sport,  Armstrong  .  .  .  don't  think 
I've  got  any  resentment  left  .  .  .  except  a  bit  that  I 
can't  quite  swallow  on  such  short  notice.  .   .  ." 

"  /  know.  But  you  don't  need  to  worry,  old  man. 
Your  future's  bright  enough  —  as  I  hope  to  wire  Rufus 
about  Saturday." 

Too  late,  Hilliard  perceived  that  they  were  talking  at 
cross-purposes  —  for  Armstrong  was  evidently  thinking 
about  the  mine.  But  there  was  time  only  for  a  last 
gesture  of  farewell ;  and  Armstrong  had  disappeared  in 
the  depths  of  the  train-shed.  Armstrong  .  .  .  the  vic- 
tor, and  the  inquisitioner  .  .  .  was  on  the  road  to 
Butte! 


XIX 

WORK,  hard  work,  the  panacea  and  the  salvation 
of  those  who  are  sore  distressed,  even  this  cheap- 
est relief  was  denied  hiin.  He  was  left  alone  with  his 
problem,  wrestling  with  it  once  more  in  the  black  dark- 
ness of  despondency,  and  knowing  neither  a  means  of 
simplifying  it,  nor  a  counsellor  to  whom  he  could  turn 
for  aid. 

But  out  of  the  years  of  his  testing,  he  had  slowly  and 
steadily  builded  for  himself  a  background  against  which 
that  problem,  now  that  it  was  critically  emergent,  stood 
out  in  sharp-cut  clarity.  At  first,  he  had  been  wholly 
ignorant  of  this ;  he  wasn't  sufficiently  self-visioned  to 
realize  it.  But  his  virtual  expulsion  from  Syracuse  two 
years  ago  had  made  upon  him  an  indelible  impression 
not  confined  solely  to  his  passions ;  it  had  gradually 
hardened  him  where,  in  his  egotistical  being,  he  was  most 
flaccid  —  in  his  contemptuous  indifference  to  all  judg- 
ments but  his  own.  At  the  outset,  it  had  made  him 
bitter,  but  it  had  also  opened  his  eyes,  as  time  went  on, 
to  the  infallibility  of  justice;  it  had  compelled  him  to 
admit,  however  grudgingly,  and  however  late,  that  he 
couldn't  expect  to  mould  the  world  to  his  heart's  desire 
without  first  remoulding  himself  to  fit  the  standards  of 
the  world,  and  he  had  sensed  this  most  clearly  on  that 
recent  morning  when  he  had  thought  himself  victorious 
over  himself. 

And  beyond  that,  the  tremendous  mental  pressure 
which  the  war  had  exerted  upon  him,  the  irresistible 

241 


242  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

power  of  his  own  sensitive  reflections,  the  staggering 
conceptions  of  the  littleness  of  the  individual,  and  the 
greatness  of  the  goal  to  which  the  individual  is  crawl- 
ing, century  by  century, —  these  furnaces  of  thought 
had  tempered  his  soul  still  further.  Abroad,  he  had 
looked  so  often  upon  human  suffering  that  it  had 
ceased  to  affect  him  merely  as  suffering;  it  was  the 
chastening  of  humanity,  of  which  each  of  the  living 
sons  of  Adam  must  bear  his  part.  His  own  share,  there- 
fore, was  inevitable ;  and  until  Harmon  had  lately  come 
to  scourge  him,  he  had  accepted  the  results  of  his  dis- 
semblance as  just  and  due  results,  chargeable  to  him- 
self, and  to  be  paid  for  without  whimpering. 

In  France,  he  had  never  thought  of  this  great  reality 
in  terms  of  practical  religion ;  indeed,  he  had  never 
thought  of  it  at  all,  except  to  admit  the  reality  of  it, 
and  to  curse  the  Prussian  oligarchs  who  had  brought  it 
to  the  point  of  demonstration ;  and  even  now,  when  his 
moods  were  plastic  enough  to  receive  the  most  finely- 
drawn  impressions,  he  was  slow  to  comprehend  that 
religion  had  anything  to  do  with  it.  For  once,  he  gave 
himself  less  credit  than  he  deserved ;  he  thought  of  him- 
self simply  as  a  man  who  had  tried,  and  failed,  and  be- 
come a  fatalist  in  consequence. 

But  fatalism  had  never  been  equal  to  the  regeneration 
w^hich  had  been  wrought  in  Hilliard,  and  when  he  at 
last  suspected  this,  he  was  then  incredulous  of  his  own 
sincerity.  He  could  understand  without  the  least  diffi- 
culty how  he  could  have  gambled  his  life  —  which  is  to 
say,  his  body  —  for  an  abstract  ideal ;  but  he  found  it 
almost  impossible  to  believe  that  he  could  deliberately 
discount  his  personal  desires,  and  ambitions,  and  vani- 
ties for  the  sake  of  an  ideal  which  concerned  only  his 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  243 

own  respect  for  himself.  He  was  afraid  that  he  had  be- 
come a  hypocrite;  he  didn't  comprehend  that  he  was 
merely  an  illustration  of  pure  logic.  His  confusion  was 
pardonable;  many  a  man  who,  at  the  last  gasp,  would 
freely  offer  his  life  to  his  country,  declines  to  buy  his 
proper  allotment  of  Liberty  bonds  the  day  before. 

And  yet,  finally,  his  spiritual  vision  was  clear,  and 
unimpeded.  Against  the  merciless  background  of  the 
war,  his  problem  was  swept  free  from  complications. 
That  background  of  suffering  and  sacrifice  —  and  Hil- 
liard  had  both  sacrificed  and  suffered  —  it  was  like  the 
background  of  a  master  painting,  which  draws  incon- 
sequential details  into  the  obscurity  of  itself,  and  throws 
the  dominant  qualities  of  the  subject  into  light.  Hil- 
liard's  ambitions,  and  desires,  and  vanities  —  those  were 
the  inconsequential  details;  and  because  he  was  still 
young,  and  timid  of  his  own  philosophy,  he  feared  that 
he  was  a  hypocrite  because  he  saw  only  the  things 
which  were  vital.  It  was  a  tribute  to  his  youth,  as  well 
as  to  his  experience. 

At  Neuilly,  he  had  deduced  that  the  care  given  to  a 
wounded  soldier  isn't  primarily  on  account  of  the 
soldier's  personal  feelings,  but  because  of  the  sol- 
dier's potential  value  to  the  mass.  He  had  come  to  be- 
lieve that  the  individual  has  no  value  at  all  excepting 
in  his  relation  to  other  individuals.  He  had  come  to 
look  upon  sacrifice  as  the  only  natural  and  normal  out- 
come of  the  whole  procedure  of  the  war;  and  after  he 
had  ceased  to  be  a  part  of  the  war,  he  had  transferred 
this  belief  so  that  it  applied  to  all  the  world.  This  con- 
viction, the  result  of  his  training  on  the  Western  front, 
had  put  him  in  possession  of  theories  which  were  the 
exact  opposite  of  hypocrisy,  for  in  his  intention  of  im- 


m4i  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

raolating  himself,  he  was  simply  carrying  out  the  orders 
of  his  conviction.  In  the  face  of  machine-gun  fire,  he 
had  gone  over  the  top  without  even  realizing  that  he 
had  a  soul  .  .  .  today,  he  realized  it,  and  was  shy  in  its 
presence,  and  thought  it  was  counterfeit  emotion. 

He  conceded  that  there  was  only  one  thing  for  him 
to  do,  and  he  intended  to  do  it,  but  he  was  harassed 
because  he  had  so  much  time  to  think  about  it.  Not 
since  the  first  sickening  shock  of  Harmon's  revelation 
had  he  doubted  his  own  purpose ;  it  was  merely  the  ma- 
chinery of  it  which  perplexed  him.  His  confidence  in 
himself  gradually  returned;  he  was  abnormally  calm 
and  determined;  he  had  no  more  idea  of  resisting  his 
impulses  than  he  would  have  had,  in  Flanders,  of  dis- 
obeying his  orders.  The  thing  was  there  to  be  done, 
and  he,  regardless  of  his  own  future,  was  there  to  do  it. 
So  had  it  been  on  the  night  of  the  wiring-party.  .  .  . 

Overnight,  he  had  occupied  himself  with  some  ele- 
mentary accounting. 

With  Harmon's  check,  his  outstanding  balance  for  ex- 
penses, and  what  money  he  could  raise  by  selling  his 
runabout  and  a  few  personal  possessions,  he  had  on 
hand  a  matter  of  ninety-six  hundred  dollars;  Syracuse 
had  entrusted  him  with  sixty-two  thousand.  To  com- 
promise pro  rata  with  his  creditors  —  this  was  appar- 
ently his  only  resource,  and  yet  how  insufficient  a  repa- 
ration it  was !  He  knew  that  it  had  been  his  duty  to 
investigate  the  Montana  property  before  he  began  to 
exploit  it;  he  knew  that  his  self-introduction  to  Syra- 
cuse had  been  blatantly  inexcusable,  and  that  not  even 
the  fact  that  he  had  been  carried  away  by  the  drama 
of  it  could  ever  be  excused.  His  intricate  fabric 
of  deception,  now  that  he  inspected  it  from  this  differ- 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  245 

ent  viewpoint,  was  flimsy  —  shoddy.  He  could  be 
traced  —  if  any  one  cared  to  spend  the  time,  and  the 
energy.  If  Armstrong  —  or  Rufus  Waring  —  cared 
to  spend  it,  for  example.  Of  course,  there  was  always 
the  refuge  of  flight,  but  in  Flanders,  men  learn  not  to 
desert  their  posts,  and  Hilliard  had  learned  that  lesson 
among  the  first.  Loyalty  to  the  cause  of  fighting  had 
grown  automatic;  flight  was  simply  inconceivable  to 
him. 

Yes,  he  could  gather  his  resources  and  place  them, 
together  with  himself,  in  the  hands  of  his  subscribers, 
and  their  vengeance  would  be  twofold;  once  for  their 
loss  out  of  pocket,  once  for  the  loss  out  of  faith.  He 
had  deserved  no  leniency,  and  he  expected  none.  But 
as  for  those  who,  without  the  financial  entanglement, 
bad  respected  him,  and  honoured  him,  as  for  Carol 
Durant  and  Angela  .  .  . 

Well,  as  for  Carol,  he  was  at  least  relieved  of  the  ter- 
rific mental  convulsion  which  would  surely  have  fallen 
upon  him  if  he  had  had  reason  to  believe  that  she  loved 
him.  As  it  was,  he  had  merely  his  own  subjective 
canker  —  only  the  pangs  of  his  own  sublime  defeat. 
Her  shock  at  his  disaster  would  be  tempered  by  Arm- 
strong's sane  philosophy ;  at  most,  she  would  lose  in  Hil- 
liard a  friend  of  only  a  few  months  —  a  man  she  had 
wanted  to  retain  as  a  friend,  but  —  by  her  own  admis- 
sion —  as  that,  and  no  more.  This  was  a  consolation 
,  .  .  trifling  and  fragile,  to  be  sure,  but  something 
saved  out  of  the  wreck.  She  would  have  more  pride  in 
Armstrong  by  the  comparison.  And  Hilliard  would 
have  died  for  her  .  .  .  and  now  he  was  destined  to  live 
for  her,  but  in  what  grewsome  penitence ! 

As  to  Armstrong  —  Hilliard,  marvelling  somewhat 


246  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

at  his  oAVTi  tolerance,  wished  him  joy.  Armstrong  was 
fine  and  clean  and  manly;  he  had  well  merited  his  vic- 
tory. As  to  Mr.  Cullen  —  Hilliard  was  torn  with  re- 
gret, but  after  all,  Cullen's  gullibility  was  what  had 
made  the  campaign  so  childishly  simply.  As  to  Angela 
.   .   .  who  had  really  loved  him   .   .   . 

"Oh,  the  poor  little  kid!"  said  Hilliard  softly. 
"  The  poor  httle  kid.   .   .   ." 

And  perhaps  he  had  never  loved  Carol  Durant  so 
much  as  when,  at  ten  o'clock  that  sunny  morning,  he 
went  up  the  steps  of  Angela's  house  to  destroy  a  little 
girl's  regard  for  him  before  it  could  be  destroyed  by 
others.  Nothing  could  have  been  more  in  evidence  of 
the  moral  awakening  which  Dr.  Durant  had  x)rophe- 
sied  to  come  from  the  moral  abyss  of  war.  Nothing 
could  have  proved  more  conclusively  that  in  due  time, 
even  without  the  intervention  of  that  war,  the  city  would 
have  been  proud  of  Dicky  Morgan.  Because  he  was 
afraid,  desperately  afraid,  that  she  was  in  love  with 
him.   .  .   . 

On  the  door-step,  he  found  strength  in  the  memory  of 
poor  Pierre  Dutout,  whose  last  thought  had  been  for 
his  neighbour,  and  not  for  himself.  In  a  way,  Hilliard 
felt  that  he,  too,  was  giving  up  his  life  as  Dutout  had 
given  his  .  .  .  with  a  smile  for  the  fate,  and  a  blessing 
for  the  future.  Because  he  was  afraid,  unnervedly 
afraid,  that  Angela,  after  all,  was  in  love  with  him  — 
and  when  he  put  a  stop  to  that,  it  was  the  beginning  of 
the  end. 


XX 


As  he  crossed  the  threshold  of  the  long,  over- 
decorated  drawing-room,  he  knew  intuitively  that 
he  had  blundered  upon  a  climax.  This  he  sensed  from 
the  attitude  of  the  three  who  turned  towards  him  as  he 
entered  —  sensed  it  before  he  saw  what  was  in  their 
eyes.  .  ,  .  The  atmosphere  was  vibrant,  as  though  from 
sound  waves  which  had  passed  beyond,  and  yet  left 
traces  of  the  swell  behind  them.  The  room  was  silent; 
but  of  a  silence  more  confounding  than  a  deafening 
turmoil. 

Hilliard,  standing  on  the  threshold,  was  himself  the 
centre  of  this  atmosphere ;  he  felt  it  partly  because  his 
mood  was  so  flexible  and  partly  because  the  three  who 
faced  him  had  simultaneously  thrown  their  fixed  atten- 
tion on  him,  thrown  it  directly  and  challengingly,  in- 
cluding him  in  the  finale  of  the  climax,  while  they  stood 
motionless  as  statues.  Unwillingly,  he  was  a  part  of 
this  finale  and  he  knew  it;  he  was  dragged  into  it,  en- 
meshed. He  looked  at  Waring,  whose  expression  was 
defensively  acute;  he  looked  at  Angela,  flushed,  palpi- 
tant, and  excited ;  he  looked  at  Mr.  Cullen,  tight-lipped 
and  frowning;  and  Hilliard  caught  his  breath,  as  a 
swimmer  who  launches  himself  to  a  high  dive,  and 
walked  composedly  into  the  drawing-room. 

"  I  hope,"  he  said  gravely,  "  I'm  not  intruding.  Am 
1?  " 

The  trio  was  galvanized  into  action;  Cullen  fairlj 

247 


248  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

leaped  at  him.  *' Hilliard ! "  he  said,  "thank  the 
Lord !     You're  the  very  man  we  want !  " 

Hilliard  smiled  straight  into  Cullen's  eyes. 

"  That's  why  I'm  here,"  he  said. 

Waring  laughed  loudlj^  —  too  loudly ;  and  the  laugh 
stopped  short,  for  CuUen  was  towering  over  him  —  Cul- 
len  blazing  with  indignant  wrath,  and  with  a  hand  rest- 
ing on  Milliard's  shoulder. 

"  Now  go  on,"  said  Cullen  commandingly.  "  We 
don't  want  any  underhanded  work  around  here,  Rufus. 
I've  told  you  that  once  already.  Go  on!  say  it  to  his 
face !  " 

The  boy  glanced  back  waywardly;  glanced  at  Hil- 
liard, and  lost  a  fraction  of  his  bravado. 

"  Why,  I  don't  know  that  I'm  under  any  obligation 
to—" 

Cullen's  mouth  twitched  sharply. 

"  Go  on!  You're  conversational  enough  behind  his 
back  —  say  it  to  his  face !  Either  you  tell  him  or  I 
will!  " 

The  boy  wiped  his  forehead.  Beads  of  sweat  stood 
out  on  it. 

"Mr.    Cullen  ...  it   isn't  ...  it   isn't  fair  .  .  ." 

"  Fair! "  Angela's  soprano  had  risen  to  a  half- 
scream.  "  Rufe  Waring,  after  what  you've  been  say- 
ing, you  talk  about  being  fair!     Why  if  you  — " 

"  Hush  !  Angela  !  "  Her  father's  admonition  was 
peremptory  enough  to  quell  her  instantl3\  He 
wheeled  back  to  Waring.  "  We're  going  to  get  at  the 
bottom  of  this  sooner  or  later  —  and  the  sooner  the 
better.  I'm  waiting  for  you  to  repeat  what  you  just 
told  us,  Rufus." 

There  were  tears  of  anger  in  the  law  student's  eyes  — 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  M9 

of  anger  and  of  impotence.  His  credibility  was  weighed 
down  bj  the  maturer  personalities  surrounding  him,  and 
he  felt  the  burden,  and  weakened  under  it.  He  gave 
Angela  a  look  of  superb  disdain,  shrugged  his  shoul- 
ders. 

"  Well,  that  settles  that!  "  he  said,  and  as  Angela 
gave  a  gasp  of  understanding,  and  turned  angrily 
white,  he  laughed  metallicly. 

Cullen  moved  nearer  to  him. 

"Are  you  going  to  speak  up  or  not.'^  Because  if 
you  aren't  .   .  ." 

Waring  folded  his  arms  ;  but  he  still  failed  of  the  pose 
he  planned,  because  his  eyes  and  his  muscles  were  traitor 
to  him. 

"  No,  I'm  not !  Not  until  I'm  ready  to !  I'm  not 
afraid  of  the  whole  crowd  of  you !  I'm  not  going  to  be 
bullied  and  bulldozed  into  — "  He  attempted  to  brush 
past  Cullen,  the  older  man  caught  him  by  the  arm. 
"  Take  your  hands  off  me !  " 

"  You  stay  where  you  are !  "  stormed  Cullen.  "  Until 
you  can  — " 

"  If  you  lay  your  hands  on  me  once  more,  Mr.  Cul- 
len, I'll  .  .  .  don't  you  forget  /  know  what  this  means ! 
I'll  have  you  — " 

"  Oh,  your  law!  "  Cullen  snorted  it  contemptuously. 
"  For  God's  sake,  don't  snivel  about  it  .  .  .  stand  up 
and  take  it  like  a  man,  if  you've  got  any  manhood  in 
you!  For  a  law  student  you're  .  .  .  well,  don't  tr^-  to 
run  awa}^  from  it,  then.  .  .  .  Are  you  going  to  tell 
him,  or  am  I?  " 

The  answer  was  delayed ;  Cullen  swung  around  to  Hil- 
liard.  "  Then  I'll  tell  you  myself.  Know  what  this 
boy's  been  saying  about  you.''     Coming  up  to  us  when 


250  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

you're  not  here,  and  trying  to  knife  you  when  you're 
not  looking?  " 

Hilliard,  who  had  been  standing  paralysed,  found 
voice. 

"  Why,  I  can  guess,"  he  said,  curiously  calm.  "  And 
don't  be  harsh  with  him,  Mr.  Cullen.  As  a  matter  of 
fact  — " 

Angela  had  sprung  between  them;  Hilliard  saw  that 
her  cheeks  were  tear-stained. 

"It's  nothing  but  jealousy!"  she  cried  vehemently. 
"  He's  said  horrible  things  about  you !  He's  always 
saying  things  about  you  !     He's  said  — " 

"  Angela!  *'  Cullen  almost  fairly  shouted  it.  "  I 
tell  you,  this  is  my  house,  and  I  won't  have  any  more 
of  this  infernal  nonsense  in  it!  Hear  me.''  I've  had  all 
the  nonsense  I'm  going  to  stand  from  anybody  !  Rufus, 
you  stay  right  there!  Angela,  you  keep  quiet!"  He 
turned  to  HilHard.  "  If  you'd  come  in  a  half  minute 
sooner,  you'd  have  heard  this  young  whipper-snapper 
trying  to  make  you  out  a  swindler!  Trying  to  class 
you  with  fake  promoters  and  mining  sharks !  Yes  — 
that's  what  he  did!  You!  And  look  at  him!  Look  at 
him !  I  want  to  tell  you,  Hilliard,  it'll  take  more  than 
his  say-so  to  start  anything  around  here!  Don't  you 
open  your  mouth,  Rufus  .  ,  .  you  had  your  chance 
and  you  wouldn't  take  it !  And  I  want  to  tell  you  right 
here  and  right  now  — " 

"  Wait  a  minute."  Hilliard  was  deadly  quiet ;  the 
only  quiet  member  of  the  quartet.  "  There's  no  use 
in  telling  all  the  neighbours  just  yet."  He  regarded 
Waring  kindly.  "  Do  3-ou  mind  repeating  precisely 
what  3^ou  did  say,  Rufus.''  Don't  you  think  I'm  entitled 
to  that  much.''  " 


0) 


be 

s 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  251 

The  boy  flushed  agonizedlj ;  he  was  the  accuser,  and 
yet  he  couldn't  meet  Hilliard's  eyes.  It  wasn't  guilt; 
it  was  mere  intellectual  inferiority ;  and  yet  it  gave 
exactly  the  opposite  impression. 

"  Well,"  he  said  desperately,  "  I  know  hearsay  evi- 
dence is  no  good,  so  I  got  it  first  hand  —  in  your  own 
room  in  the  Onondaga,  didn't  I  ?  You  won't  deny  that, 
will  yon?  I  didn't  just  pick  up  rumours  —  I  got  it 
from  you.  Didn't  I  come  there  and  ask  you  questions, 
and  didn't  you  give  me  the  data?  Show  me  figures  and 
everything?  And  I  told  i\Ir.  Cullen  the  very  next  day, 
it  didn't  look  good  to  me."  His  voice  rose  stridently. 
"  All  right,  I'll  say  to  him,  and  I'll  say  it  to  you,  and 
I'll  say  it  to  anybody  that'll  listen  to  me!  It  didn't 
look  good  to  me  then,  and  it  doesn't  now,  I  told  him 
you  acted  darned  funny  about  it.  And  just  now  I've 
been  telling  him  I  don't  believe  it's  straight.  I've  got  a 
right  to  my  own  opinion,  haven't  I?  Well,  I  don't  be- 
lieve it  is  straight!  You're  too  blamed  sketchy  about 
it,  and  it's  got  all  the  earmarks  of  a  bum  promotion! 
There  ,  .  .  Cullen !  "  The  omission  of  the  prefix  to 
the  father  of  his  idol  was  the  worst  insult  he  could  con- 
ceive. 

Cullen's  hand  was  still  on  Hilliard's  shoulder  and  it 
was  Hilliard  whom  he  addressed,  explosively,  and  with 
that  particular  sort  of  muffled  fury  which  rises  best 
from  a  set  of  circumstances  not  thoroughly  under- 
stood. 

"  What  this  is  all  about  is  beyond  me!  Only,  if  this 
law  minnow  has  gone  as  far  as  this  .  .  .  We've  got  to 
get  to  the  bottom  of  it  .  .  .  you  know  that  as  well  as 
I  do,  Hilliard.  Naturally.  The  boy's  as  wild  as  a 
hawk.     Heaven  knows  how  far  he'd  go  outside.     This 


S52  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

has  got  to  get  cleared  up !  We'v€  got  to  pound  some 
sense  into  him.     We  — " 

Hilliard  was  smiling  vacuously ;  now  that  the  blow  had 
actually  fallen,  and  the  complaint  officially  lodged,  he 
felt  deliciously  relaxed,  content.  Before  he  could  con- 
trive a  reply  Waring  was  strident  again. 

"  Yes."  The  student's  voice  was  thin  with  acerbity. 
"  Yes,  you  think  you're  pretty  smart  —  all  of  you. 
Don^t  you?  I  come  in  here  to  do  you  a  kindness  that 
anybody  else,  it  seems  to  me,  would  take  as  a  favour,  and 
you  and  Angela  jump  all  over  me  —  why  doesn't  he 
deny  it?  That's  what  /  want  to  know!  Why  doesn't 
he  sa2/  something !  " 

Cullen  looked  at  Hilliard,  and  made  a  swift  deduction, 
and  spoke  it. 

"  He's  waiting  for  the  rest  of  it.  Go  on  —  you're 
only  half  through  the  yarn  you  told  us." 

"  Oh,  very  well."  Waring  gathered  courage.  "  You 
can  have  all  you  want  —  maybe  more  than  you  want. 
You'd  have  had  it  sooner  if  you  hadn't  started  yelling 
at  me.  I  know  what  I'm  talking  about;  you  people 
don't  seem  to  realize  I'm  in  the  law!  1  don't  go  off 
half-cocked.  I  wrote  to  a  law  firm  in  Butte,  Montana, 
that's  what  I  did.  I  found  out  what  was  the  biggest 
firm  there,  and  I  wrote  'em  a  letter.  They  answered  it, 
too.  I  got  my  information  right  from  the  ground. 
I've  got  a  letter  that  says  — " 

Cullen  swayed  forward,  his  hand  outstretched,  palm- 
upward,  in  a  direct  challenge  of  Waring's  truthfulness. 

"Where  is  it?" 

The  boy  withdrew  a  step,  and  stammered :  "  I  left 
it  home." 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  255 

"  Oh,  you  did ! "  Cullen's  laugh  was  stinging. 
"That's  likely!" 

"  Yes,  that's  exactly  what  I  did !  Think  I'd  bring 
an  original  letter  out  of  my  office  —  let  it  out  of  my 
hands  until  it's  time  to  make  it  of  record?  Not  on  your 
life!  I've  got  it  all  right.  And  it  isn't  the  only  in- 
formation I've  got,  or  all  I'm  going  to  have,  and  don't 
lose  sight  of  that,  either.  It  says  the  Silverbow  Mining 
Corporation  owns  some  acreage,  fast  enough,  but  there 
isn't  a  mine  on  it  — " 

Cullen  vented  his  abandon  of  rage  on  the  empty  air. 

"  Well,  who  in  the  devil  ever  said  there  was?  '* 

"  Why  .  .  .  didn't  you?  "  The  appeal  was  to  Hil- 
liard ;  and  it  was  made  in  a  tone  of  astonishment  which 
would  have  been  ludicrous  if  there  hadn't  been  tragedy 
behind  it. 

"  No."  Hilliard  shook  his  head.  "  You  can't  ac- 
cuse me  of  that,  at  least.  .  .  .  The  only  mine  we  ever 
mentioned  was  one  in  prospect.  I  always  said  it  was  a 
prospect,  with  an  old  shaft  on  it,  didn't  I.''  And  so  it 
is !  But  an  old  shaft  isn't  a  producing  mine,  necessar- 
ily.    And  —  please  let  him  finish,  Mr.  Cullen !  " 

"  Well  .  .  ."  The  boy  had  twin  discs  of  hectic  flame 
in  his  cheeks.  "  That's  only  a  detail,  anyway  .  .  . 
they  said  it  was  .  .  .  undeveloped  .  .  .  they  said  the 
shaft  had  been  abandoned  more  than  two  years  ago, 
because  it  wasn't  worth  much  of  anything  — " 

Cullen's  hands  were  closing  and  unclosing  apoplec- 
tically, 

"  For  Heaven's  sake,  who  ever  said  it  wasn't!  two 
years  ago !  We  all  know  that !  Give  us  some  news, 
young  man,  give  us  some  news  !  " 


254.  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

Waring  was  breathing  hard,  and  his  interest  had 
switched  to  Angela,  who  stood  adamant.  Indeed,  he  was 
suddenly  transformed  to  the  status  of  a  suppliant 
rather  than  that  of  a  prosecuting  witness. 

"  Well  .  .  .  they  said  it  was  offered  .  .  .  two  years 
ago  ...  to  anybody  who'd  take  it  .  .  .  for  ten  thou- 
sand dollars  .  .  .  and  nobody 'd  take  it  as  a  gift  .  ,  ." 

"  Oh,  good  Lord ! "  Cullen  was  near  to  bursting. 
"  Doesn't  the  fool  know  what  a  prospect  is?  Hasn't 
he  seen  the  reports  ?     And  still  he  — " 

"  And  .  .  .  and  the  land  next  to  it  was  .  .  .  had  a 
mine  on  it,  the  XLNC  mine,  that's  in  pretty  fair  shape, 
but  that  didn't  signify  anything.  .  ,  ."  He  paused  for 
a  moment.  "  And  there  hasn't  been  any  work  done  on 
it,  to  speak  of,  for  two  years.  .  .  .  And  the  corporation 
report  I  got  shows  that  a  fellow  named  Martin  Har- 
mon's the  president  of  it,  and  Harmon's  a  cheap  Wall 
Street  man  in  New  York.  The  Butte  people  don't  con- 
sider him  reliable.  And  I've  written  to  him  four  times 
—  and  he  won't  answer." 

"  Ah  !  "  said  Hilliard,  startled. 

"Well?"     Cullen  repeated  his  challenge. 

"  That's  all."  He  gazed  beseechingly  at  Angela,  who 
sniffed,  and  turned  her  head  away. 

"  All !  "  Cullen  breathed  stertorously.  "  And  with  a 
flimsy  lot  of  rot  like  that  3^ou've  got  the  unmitigated 
gall  to  start  a  slanderous  story  like  this  about  Henry 
Hilliard !     You've  got  the  nerve  to  — " 

"  The  astonishing  part  of  it,"  interposed  Hilliard, 
with  coolness  which  astonished  even  himself,  "  is  that 
every  single  item  of  it  is  true!  Don't  blame  him,  Mr. 
Cullen.     It's  true  —  every  word." 

Cullen  shook  himself. 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  265 

"Of  course  it's  true!  Isn't  it  what  you've  told  us 
yourself,  in  a  different  way !  It's  the  telling  of  it  that 
counts  1 " 

"  Now  listen  to  me  a  moment !  "  Hilliard  was  im- 
passively serious :  the  way  to  the  denouement  was  open- 
ing clear  before  him.  He  need  only  offer  himself  for 
judgment,  and  the  future  would  take  care  of  itself. 
"  My  purpose  in  coming  up  here  this  afternoon  was  to 
talk  to  you  about  this  same  property,  Mr.  Cullen.  I 
...  I  had  some  rather  important  things  to  tell  you 
about  it.  But  in  view  of  this  new  attitude  of  Waring's, 
I'm  going  to  act  differently.  This  won't  stop  here, 
and  I  prefer  to  have  somebody  look  into  it  before  it's 
any  worse.  I'm  going  to  put  myself  in  your  hands. 
Rufus  and  Angela,  I  want  you  both  to  witness  this.  .  .  . 
Mr.  Cullen,  I'm  going  to  give  you  a  check  for  eight 
thousand  dollars ;  it's  my  whole  balance  at  the  Trust 
and  Deposit  Company,  less  what  I'll  need  to  live  on  for 
a  few  days.  I'm  going  to  turn  over  to  you  twentv  thou- 
sand shares  in  the  Silvcrbow  Mining  Corporation  to 
keep  for  me  —  it's  my  own  personal  holding.  I'm  going 
to  turn  over  to  you  my  contract  with  the  owning  corpo- 
ration, which  calls  for  the  delivery  of  all  the  rest  of  the 
corporate  stock  on  payment  of  a  hundred  and  twenty 
thousand  dollars,  of  which  we've  already  paid  sixty-two. 
I'll  give  you  the  corporation's  receipt  to  me  for  that 
amount.  And  I  give  you  my  word  of  honour  not  to  step 
foot  outside  of  the  city  of  Syracuse,  nor  to  be  for  one 
single  hour  out  of  your  reach  until  you've  investigated 
the  whole  proposition  from  beginning  to  end.  I  insist 
that  you  make  that  investigation.  That's  on  condition 
that  Rufus  won't  mention  this  again,  either  here  or 
anywhere  else,  until  he's  collected  the  facts!     And  I'll 


256  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

tell  you  right  now  Rufus  has  given  you  the  truth ! " 

"  My  dear  man !  "  Cullen's  tone  was  conciliating. 
"  We  know  all  that !  We've  gone  into  this  with  our 
eyes  oi^en.  We're  not  buying  a  productive  mine;  we're 
buying  a  good  prospect." 

"  Since  I  saw  you  last,"  Hilliard's  voice  broke,  "  I've 
reason  to  fear  that  it  isn't  as  good  as  we  hoped." 

*'  There!  "  Waring  was  jubilant.  "Listen  to  that, 
now!     What  did  I  tell  you.?" 

"  We  went  into  it  with  our  eyes  open,"  said  CuUen, 
after  a  pause.  "  You  told  us  from  the  very  first  it 
wasn't  an  absolute  certainty  —  good  Lord,  what  busi- 
ness proposition  ever  is?  Besides  — "  He  sent  a 
flash  of  scorn  to  Waring.  "  I  don't  care  who  knows 
where  /  stand  on  this  deal  or  any  other.  I  don't  buy 
properties ;  I  back  men.  I'm  banking  on  you,  Hilliard. 
I'm  putting  my  money  back  of  you.  I'm  counting  on 
you  to  make  good  —  if  this  Montana  thing  falls  down 
cold,  I  know  you'd  make  it  right  with  me  —  if  I'd  let 
you.  But  I  wouldn't.  When  I'm  sold,  I'm  sold  for 
keeps,  and  I'm  sold  on  you.  I'm  taking  the  risk  just  as 
you  are.     So  .  .  ." 

"  Thank  you."  Hilliard's  appreciation  was  in  the 
nature  of  a  stiff  bow.  "  I'm  afraid  you're  exaggerating 
a  little,  though.  .  .  ." 

"Not  one  syllable!" 

Hilliard  was  patently  grateful. 

"  At  any  rate,  I'm  going  to  do  as  I  said  .  .  .  you'll 
keep  those  things  as  a  favour  to  me,  won't  you.''  As 
securit}^  or  evidence  of  good  faith,  or  whatever  you 
want  to  call  it.?  " 

"  Nonsense !     For  a  flare-up  like  this?     Ridiculous  !  " 

"  But  I  insist,"  said  Hilliard.     "  And  I  want  you  to 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  257 

make  an  investigation  —  a  thorough  one."  He  smiled 
grimly ;  Dicky  Morgan  was  safe  for  ever.  "  I  know 
in  advance  what  you'll  find." 

"  So  do  I.  Oh,  well,  I  know  how  you  feel.  If  you 
want  to  be  whitewashed,  I  suppose  I'll  have  to  act  as  a 
sort  of  trustee  for  you  —  it's  tommyrot,  but  if  you 
want  it,  I  won't  refuse.  Send  me  the  stuff  and  I'll  put 
it  away  for  you  where  it'll  be  safe.  And  Rufus  here  — " 
They  turned  together  to  the  law  student,  who  was  defi- 
antly abject.  "  Rufus,  I  hope  you've  got  enough  sense 
left  not  to  go  peddling  any  more  idiotic  rumours  until 
there's  some  foundation  to  'em.  We're  going  to  give 
you  every  chance  in  the  world  to  back  up  what  you've 
said,  but  if  you  can't  — '*     He  paused  significantly. 

"  You  let  me  do  the  investigating,"  said  Waring  dog- 
gedly.    "  /'ll  get  at  the  foundations  for  you." 

"  Do  it,  and  welcome !  "  This  from  HiUiard.  "  I'll 
take  Armstrong's  report  if  you  will  —  or  you  can  go 
just  as  much  further  as  you  like." 

Cullen  had  detected  Waring's  start  of  astonishment 
and  chagrin,  and  his  interest  quickened  at  the  by- 
play. 

"  What's  Jack  Armstrong  got  to  do  with  it?  " 

"  Oh,  he's  going  to  take  a  look  at  it  on  his  way 
West,"  said  Hilliard,  diffidently,  and  added,  with  more 
generosity  tlian  Waring  had  anticipated.  "  Rufus  and 
I  both  asked  him  to." 

"  Oh ! "  said  Cullen,  failing  to  interpret  correctly 
Waring's  reaction  to  this  last  statement.  "  Well,  if 
you're  really  serious  about  wanting  an  inquiry  —  and  I 
suppose  if  I  were  in  your  place,  I'd  demand  it,  too  — 
I'm  with  you.     Are  you  serious?  " 

"  I've  never  been  more  serious  in  my  life.     Let  Rufus 


^5S  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

—  and  Jack  —  handle  it  together.  Between  them, 
tliej'li  make  rather  an  exhaustive  study,  don't  you 
think?  And  they  might  turn  up  something  that  all  of 
us  would  want  to  know." 

"That's  right!  It's  a  thought."  He  coughed  sol- 
idly. "  Well  —  was  there  something  really  important 
you  wanted  to  see  me  about,  Hilliard?  " 

"  Why,  not  now." 

"  W^ell,  I  wanted  to  see  you.  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
I  was  going  to  hunt  you  up  this  morning  —  when  this 
merry  little  party  started.  I've  got  a  couple  of  men 
down  in  my  office  who  want  a  bite  of  this  scheme  .  .  . 
say  five  thousand  apiece.  .  .  .  What  do  you  want  to  do 
about  it?" 

Hilliard  laughed  unaffectedly,  and  Rufus  stared  at 
him,  and  envied  him  his  composure. 

"  You  keep  the  money  until  after  the  investigation," 
he  said.  "  For  all  you  know,  I  may  be  in  Sing-Sing 
before  they  could  have  the  funds  read3\" 

"Well—"  Cullen  looked  at  his  watch.  "I  can't 
waste  any  more  time  on  this  tomfool  business.  I  ought 
to  have  been  in  the  office  an  hour  ago.  Anybody  going 
downtown  ?  " 

"  I  am  —  but  I'll  walk,"  said  Waring  sullenly. 

"  Can  I  stay?  "  asked  Hilliard  of  Angela,  in  an  un- 
dertone. 

"  I  want  you  to,"  she  said.  Her  eyes  followed  War- 
ing to  the  doorwa}^ 

After  they  had  been  alone  for  a  full  minute,  and 
neither  of  them  had  uttered  a  syllable,  it  came  to  Hil- 
liard that  the  chief  difficulty  in  being  evil  is  to  make  an 
end  of  it,  but  that  the  chief  difficulty  in  being  virtuous 
is  to  begin.     His  brain  was  active,  and  his  emotions  were 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  259 

placid ;  but  to  his  mild  perplexity  he  had  no  compelling 
desire  to  make  a  start.  There  was  no  restraining  im- 
pediment working  against  him,  as  on  the  occasion  of  his 
interview  with  Carol ;  his  impulses  were  merely  lazy. 
Indeed,  he  was  rather  highly  gratified  at  the  course  of 
things  this  morning;  he  argued  that  Waring's  zeal  and 
Armstrong's  itinerary  had  reh'eved  him  from  any  neces- 
sity of  an  out-and-out  avowal  of  his  innocent  fraud; 
it  was  much  more  satisfactory,  since  all  the  issues  were 
so  confused,  to  turn  his  aiFairs  over  to  Cullen,  and  to 
await  the  inevitable  verdict  on  an  impersonal  basis.  In 
the  meantime,  he  was  deeply  touched  by  Cullen's  confi- 
dence in  him;  Cullen  and  Carol  Durant  alike  had  re- 
fused to  believe  the  obvious  truth ;  he  wondered  stolidly 
what  it  would  have  meant  to  him  to  have  had  such  a 
reputation  from  his  youth  onward ;  the  gratification  now 
would  have  been  superlative  —  provided  only  that  he 
had  been  entitled  to  his  pride. 

"  He's  jealous  of  you,"  said  Angela  abruptly. 
"  That's  all  —  he's  jealous.  Simply  wild  with  it.  You 
know  that  —  don't  you?  " 

Hilliard  started ;  for  it  wasn't  an  emboldening  begin- 
ning. Not  the  least  so;  it  implied  exactly  the  sort  of 
rivalry  which  he  had  feared,  and  which  he  had  corat  to 
relinquish. 

"  Who  is?     Oh !  Rufus  Waring?  " 

"  Terribly  jealous.  Perfectly  crazy  with  it.  That's 
what  all  this  whole  mess  is  about."  She  tossed  her  head 
wilfully.     *7  don't  care ;  do  you  ?  " 

The  unreserved  bluntness  of  it  nearly  took  him  off  his 
feet;  renewing  the  devastating  suspicion  that  Angela 
had  grown  to  care  too  much  for  him  —  too  much  for  her 
own  good. 


260  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

"  Why,  Angela !  "  he  said  lamelj.  "  Of  course  I  do. 
It  hurts  me." 

She  hammered  a  gold-emboidered  sofa-cushion  with 
one  tiny  fist. 

"  Oh,  he's  jealous  of  everything  and  everybody. 
That  doesn't  count  any  more.  Only  it  made  me  per- 
fectly furious.  ...  I  wanted  to  scratch  him  .  .  .  the 
very  idea  of  his  daring  to  say  anything  like  that  about 
you !  Even  if  you  do  like  me  a  lot ! "  She  sighed 
heavily.  "  And  yet  if  you  stop  to  think  about  it,  it 
was  sort  of  brave,  too  —  standing  up  to  all  of  us  when 
it  was  three  to  one,  and  he  was  wrong  —  poor  dear !  " 

Hilliard  looked  down  at  her  with  deep  affection,  and 
troubled  relief. 

"  As  long  as  I've  a  defender  hke  you,  I  wouldn't 
worry,"  he  said,  "  but  I'm  afraid  it  won't  be  for  so  very 
long,  Angela,  that  you'll  feel  like  defending  me." 

"Why  not?"  she  asked. 

"  Just  a  notion  of  mine.  It  strikes  me  that  you're 
fonder  of  Rufus  than  3^ou  let  yourself  think.  And 
he  needs  a  champion  worse  than  I  do ;  I'm  more  used  to 
taking  care  of  myself." 

The  corners  of  her  mouth  were  peculiarly  sensi- 
tive. 

"  Such  a  queer  notion !  "  she  said.  "  Where'd  3'ou 
ever  get  it  ?  " 

"  Oh,  it  came  of  its  own  accord.  .  .  ." 

"  It's  been  such  a  funn}^  day,"  she  said,  musing. 
"  Rufus  was  funny,  and  Dad  was  funny,  and  you're  so 
funny,  and  Carol  was  funny  this  morning  and  I'm 
funny  now,  and  — " 

"  Carol !  "  he  echoed  involuntarily. 

She  laughed  at  him,  enjoying  his  discomfiture  with 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  261 

the  sweet  insolence  of  a  naughty  juvenile;  and  it  was 
noteworthy  that  her  arraignment  of  Waring  stopped 
short  at  this  point. 

"  I  know  something  about  you!  "  she  taunted  wick- 
edly. 

"What  do  you  know,  bright  child?"  he  demanded, 
red  to  the  temples. 

"/  know!"  Her  tone  was  singing.  "So  do  you! 
Look  at  the  man  blush!  Why,  you  guilty  thing! 
Why,  you  red  geranium!  " 

He  sat  down  beside  her,  staring  at  her  vivid,  flower- 
like face. 

"  Angela,  you  little  demon,  stop  laughing  at  me !  " 

It  was  fresh  incentive;  she  only  bubbled  the  more. 

"  I  told  you  I'd  laugh  at  you  sometime,"  she  re- 
minded him  triumphantly,  "  and  this  is  the  time !  " 

"Think  so.?" 

"  I  know  so  I  "  All  at  once,  she  became  demurely 
sober.  "  I'm  awfully  glad,  honestly  ...  it  isn't  out 
yet,  of  course,  but  everybody  knows  about  you  and 
Carol,  especially  since  Jack  Armstrong  lost  out,  and 
went  out  West,  just  the  way  they  do  in  novels.  I'm 
just  as  glad  as  I  can  he.  Only  you  might  have  given 
me  a  wee  little  hint  —  just  to  me,  you  know,  mightn't 
you.?" 

"  Angela !  "     He  caught  at  her  hand. 

"  Oho  !  That  wakes  you  up,  doesn't  it.?  "  Her  man- 
ner changed  to  the  maternal;  if  Hilliard  had  been  in  a 
different  frame  of  mind,  it  would  have  convulsed  him. 
"  Now  just  be  calm  and  tell  me  all  about  it,"  she  in- 
structed him  indulgently.  "  Tell  me  everything  —  I 
won't  repeat  it  to  a  single  soul!  I'm  awfully  excited 
about  it.     Please  tell  me." 


262  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

"  Angela !     Where  did  jou  — " 

She  pouted  instantly. 

"Not  just  plain  *  Angela  ' — put  some  trimming  on 
it." 

"  Well  —  Angela  dear  .  .  .  what's  that  about  Jack 
Armstrong?  Say  that  again  —  and  tell  me  everything 
you  know  about  it.  Be  serious  for  once.  That's  a 
good  girl !  " 

Her  eyes  were  mischievously  tender;  somehow  she 
reminded  Hilliard  of  that  moment  in  the  hallway  of  the 
Durants'  house  —  the  most  precious  of  all  his  recent 
memories. 

"  Will  you  tell  me  if  I  tell  you?  " 

"  Yes.     I  guess  so." 

Her  finger  was  upraised  in  warning. 

«  Say  '  Yes,  dear.'  " 

"  Yes,  dear,"  said  Hilliard,  writhing. 

She  settled  herself  with  a  little  flounce  of  excite- 
ment. 

"  Well  .  .  .  Jack's  asked  her,  and  she  refused  him. 
.  .  .  Flat  as  a  pancake.  That's  gospel  truth !  She 
told  me  she'd  refused  him,  and  he  told  me  the  pancake 
part.  And  everybody's  glad  of  it  —  he's  a  nice  boy ; 
awfully  nice  —  but  nowhere  near  as  nice  as  you  are. 
And  he's  just  naturally  gone  away  to  get  over  it.  And 
you're  the  only  one  left.  So  —  that's  finished ;  you 
tell  me:' 

He  stared  at  her  unblinkingly.  Had  he  really  been 
at  such  cross-purposes  with  Armstrong  at  the  station, 
then?     The  conception  was  illuminating. 

"  Everybody?  "  he  repeated,  red  and  white  by  turns, 
and  mightily  hushed.     "What  does  that  mean?" 

"  Just  that.     Everybody.     That  is  — "     Her  accent 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  263 

was  deliciouslj  superior.  "  That  is,  all  the  people  one 
knows." 

"  They  think  .  .  .  they  think  Pm  the  .  .  .  the  one." 

"Silly!"  She  patted  his  head.  "I  didn't  believe 
you'd  try  to  camouflage  me.  No  —  honestly  —  isn't 
it  true?" 

He  studied  her  for  a  moment.  "  What  would  you  say 
if  it  were?  "  he  asked  soberly. 

She  returned  his  gaze  with  engaging  frankness. 

"  Oh,  I  want  it  to  be  —  I  want  it  to  bo !  "  she  said. 
"  Carol's  the  sweetest  thing  in  town,  and  as  for  you 
.  .  .  well,  sometimes  I  almost  wish  I  could  marry  you 
myself!" 

His  heart  leaped  dangerously.  One  complication  the 
less!  Oh,  the  respite  of  it!  Angela  removed  from  the 
problem  and  —  he  sank  back  wearily  —  Carol  coming 
into  it  again,  and  irrevocably. 

"  '  Almost?  '  "  he  queried  mechanically. 

She  looked  at  the  floor ;  when  she  raised  her  eyes 
he  saw  the  well  remembered  depths  in  them.  She  was 
half-child ;  half-woman  —  and  the  woman  was  speaking 
with  the  child's  tongue.  Her  hand  covered  his;  the 
warm,  timid  pressure  was  very  assuaging. 

"  Yes,  '  almost '  .  .  .  I  suppose  I  can  really  talk 
to  you,  can't  I?  I  always  thought  I  could  .  .  .  well, 
when  you  first  came  here  I  was  perfectly  crazy  about 
you  ...  I  am  yet,  in  a  way,  only  sort  of  boiled  down 
.  .  .  you  know.  Not  like  a  sister  at  all,  but  .  .  .  not 
the  other  sort,  either.  I  thought  it  was  going  to  be, 
once,  but  ...  I  ...  I  like  you  better  than  any- 
body else  in  the  whole  world  —  all  but  two.  You  don't 
mind  my  telling  you,  do  you?  I  know  j^ou've  thought 
I'm  a  baby,  sometimes  ...  I  suppose  I   am.  ...  I 


264  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

...  I  liked  to  be  kissed  ...  by  people  I  like  .  .  . 
and  .  .  .  and  .  .  .  you  know  it's  sort  of  like  sunlight; 
I  need  lots  of  it.  People  have  always  fussed  over 
me  .  .  ."  Here  she  gave  a  poignant  sigh  for  her  lost 
youth.  "  Only  .  .  .  it's  funny,  too  .  .  .  but  one  of 
the  two  people  I  do  like  better  than  I  do  you  ...  in 
a  different  way  ...  is  ...  is  Rufe  Waring.  He's 
jealous  as  a  ...  a  torn  cat  .  .  .  but  somehow  I  don't 
mind  it  from  him ;  I  almost  like  it  ...  it  i^  funny,  isn't 
it?  We're  having  perfectly  terrible  riots  all  the  time 
now,  but  it's  only  because  I've  teased  him  .  .  .  and  then 
he  was  so  frightfully  jealous  about  3^ou,  and  1  ...  I 
teased  him  about  that.  He's  just  gone  on  a  rampage 
today ;  he  doesn't  know  what  he's  saying.  He'll  be 
sorry  for  it ;  he'll  apologize  to  you,  and  me,  and 
Dad,  and  we'll  have  to  forgive  him  .  .  .  please  don't 
hate  him  if  you  can  help  it.  It  was  just  because  he 
thought  you  weren't  quite  good  enough  for  me,  I  guess. 
And  you've  got  to  give  him  credit  for  that,  now,  haven't 
you?  .  .  .  And  .  .  .  I  hope  you  and  Carol'll  be  awfully 
happy  together." 

"  Dear  girl !  "  said  Hilliard  gently. 

"  Do  you  understand?  "  Her  eyes  were  very  plead- 
ing, very  misty,  and  Hilliard,  being  a  right-minded  man 
at  this  stage  of  his  progress,  was  awe-struck  at  stand- 
ing in  the  presence  of  consummate  girlhood,  woman- 
hood-to-be, crystal  and  virginal  and  delicate  as  the 
petal  of  a  shaded  wild-flower. 

"Understand?  —  yes.  Can  I  wish  you  happiness, 
too?" 

"  Not  yet,"  she  said,  adorably  prim.  "  He  hasn't 
.  .  .  oh,  we  both  know  about  it,  but  he's  got  to  graduate 
from  law-school  first,  and  —  after  that  .  .   .  maybe  I 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  265 

can  .  .  .  travel  a  little."  She  blushed  shamefully. 
"  You  needn't  grin  like  a  Cheshire  cat  —  I  guess  I'll 
see  Niagara  Falls,  anyway !  " 

"  I  wasn't  '  grinning,'  "  he  said.  "  I  was  smiling  at 
you  right  out  of  my  heart.  .  .  .  But  I  do  wish  happi- 
ness for  you  —  always  and  always.  And  for  Rufus, 
too  —  only  that  isn't  necessary,  because  it's  one  of  the 
great  certainties.  And  I'm  happier  myself  than  I've 
been  for  ages  .  .  .  dear  .  .  ."  He  stopped,  swamped 
by  the  recollection  that  it  was  Waring  who  was  to 
share  in  the  demonstration  of  his  perfidy.  To  wish 
happiness  to  an  executioner —  and  not  be  a  hypocrite.? 
Incredible  —  3^et  true.     Hilliard  wished  him  happiness. 

"What  is  it.?"  she  demanded,  alert  to  his  altered 
expression. 

"  Nothing.  .  .  .  I'm  just  sorry  I'm  not  a  Mormon  !  " 

"You're  fibbing!     Still  .  .  ." 

Hilliard  rose  hastily. 

"  Wait !  "  she  said.  "  You  can't  go  until  you've 
told  me  one  more  thing  .  .  .  you  don't  honestly  think 
Rufe's  underhanded,  now,  do  you?  " 

^'  No  —  oh,  no,  Angela.  A  man  can  be  so  upset 
that  he  can  — " 

"You  know  we  were  just  shocked  and  surprised  — 
and  Dad's  awfully  quick  tempered.  And  it  was  so 
sudden!  We  didn't  stop  to  talk  it  over;  we  sailed  right 
into  him,  and  all  of  us  got  excited,  and  then  you  came 
in.  We  didn't  know  how  frightfully  jealous  Rufe  could 
be  —  he's  been  bad  enough  before,  but  this  time  was 
the  limit  —  and  it's  only  because  he's  a  boy.  It's 
.  .  .  sort  of  primeval.     You  know." 

"  Yes,  dear  —  3^es !  " 

"  And  .  .  .  and  he  did  know  us  long  before  he  ever 


266  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

knew  you.  He  thought  he  was  protecting  us.  It  was 
just  an  obsession  — ^" 

"It's  all  right  — quite  all  right.  Please!"  He 
touched  her  hair  lightly.  "  I  wish  I  were  as  sure  you'd 
always  defend  me  as  I  am  that  you'll  stick  to  him, 
Angela." 

"  That's  twice  you've  said  that  .  .  ,  and  you  know 
what  /  think !  I've  told  you.  And  .  .  .  are  3^ou  go- 
ing off  without  telling  me  an3'thing  at  all !  "  Her  voice 
betrayed  the  irreparable  injury  of  it. 

Hilliard  moistened  his  lips. 

"  Angela,  dear,  next  to  one  other  person  I  love  you 
better  than  any  one  else  on  earth." 

"  That's  nice,"  she  said,  with  a  sigh  of  perfect  con- 
tent. 

He  bent  to  her,  but  she  eluded  him. 

"  Oh,  no!  "  she  gasped  in  fluttering  protest.  "  Even 
if  you  .  .  .  but  I've  told  you  about  Rufe  now  —  you 
haven't  told  me  about  Carol,  but  it's  plain  as  day  — 
it  wouldn't  be  right!  " 

"  Angela !  " 

She  relented  swiftly ;  his  voice  w^as  something  to 
rely  on. 

"Well  —  just  my  cheek,  then.     Honestly,  I  .  .  ." 

"  No,  dear,"  said  Hilliard.  He  compelled  her  chin 
upward,  and  smiled  down  into  her  lovely,  startled  eyes, 
and  stooped  and  kissed  her  forehead  .  .  .  then  her 
lips. 

"  That's  for  good-bye,"  he  said,  "  to  the  dearest 
little  girl  I  ever  knew.  .  .  .  We're  both  growing  up, 
aren't  we  ?  " 


XXI 


TN  the  colourless  days  that  followed,  he  listlessly 
1  set  about  the  ordering  of  his  final  plans  For- 
tunately, there  were  few  of  them;  his  mmd  would  never 
have  been  equal  to  intricate  detail. 

It  was  a'  shght  consolation  to  him  to  realize  that 
the  city  had  a  habit  of  judging  men  by  personal  rather 
than  by  financial  standards;  for  all  its  pride  and 
wealth,  it  would  censure  him  more  for  his  wrecked  per- 
Lality  than  for  whatever  money  losses  he  had  caused. 
He  was  prepared  to  endure  that  censure ;  and  because 
he  understood  the  provocation  behind  it^  he  was  a  1  the 
xnore  eager  to  aid  in  the  salvage.  There  would  be 
more  saved  from  the  underwriting  project,  he  thought, 
than  from  his  character. 

He  had  deposited  with  CuUen  all  he  owned,  except 
for  his  private  belongings,  his  Franklin  runabout,  and 
a  triviaf  sum  for  current  expenses      The  -nabou    h 
would  offer  for  sale;  it  meant  a  few  hundred  doUais 
more  to  be  divided  among  his  contributors.     Beyond 
Zt    there  was  nothing  else  he  could  restore  to  them. 
A      o  his  own  immediate  behaviour,  he  was  irresolute. 
It  had  gratuitously  occurred  to  him  that  perhaps  the 
only  convincing  exodus  for  such  a  complete  failure,  such 
In  infectious  ne'er-do-well,  was   one  of  violence,  self- 
"flicted;  but  he  had  dismissed  the  thougM  as  unworthy 
ven  of  himself.     He  didn't  belie.e  that  Harmon  -    d 
ever  carry  out  his  promised  betrayal;  not  that  he  had 
fa  th  in   Harmon's   code   of  ethics,   but   because   he 


268  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

trusted  Harmon's  horse-sense.  If  Hilliard  were  alone 
to  be  accused,  Harmon  would  gain  nothing  and  might, 
if  he  offered  any  adverse  testimony,  even  implicate 
himself.  Indeed,  if  Harmon  should  say  enough  to 
establish  the  proof  of  HiUiard's  identity,  Harmon  would 
place  himself  in  the  dangerous  status  of  an  accessory 
before  the  fact.  No  .  .  .  this  was  the  sane  procedure ; 
to  let  the  memory  of  Dicky  Morgan  rest  in  peace,  and 
to  let  the  brunt  of  anger  fall  on  Henry  Hilliard,  who  was 
a  nobody  from  nowhere,  with  a  lying  face,  a  lying 
tongue,  and  no  claque  to  mourn  at  his  exit. 

But  then  there  was  Angela's  startling  allegation 
.  .  .  she  had  declared  that  "  everybody  "  in  town  knew 
all  about  Hilliard  and  Carol.  "  Everybody  "  regarded 
him  as  the  victorious  contender,  and  yet  he  knew,  in 
secret,  that  he  was  the  vanquished,  and  without  honour. 
Besides,  in  a  day  or  two  "  everybody  "  would  have  a 
different  opinion.  He  had  tried  to  explain  himself 
to  Carol,  and  he  had  failed ;  and  in  the  light  of  Angela's 
revelation,  it  was  difficult  to  decide  whether  Carol  her- 
self, in  protesting  that  she  wanted  to  retain  him  as  a 
friend,  had  meant  that  and  nothing  more,  or  that  and 
a  great  deal  more.  But  no  matter  what  she  had  in- 
tended to  convey,  no  matter  what  she  had  intended  to 
conceal,  he  dared  not  go  to  her  again,  he  dared  not 
see  her  and  speak  to  her,  for  if  he  lied  to  her  .  .  .  but 
he  couldn't  lie  to  her  now,  and  every  word  of  truth 
would  prove  a  boomerang.  He  was  trapped;  and  al- 
though his  heart  was  breaking  for  the  love  he  had  al- 
most won  a  second  time,  he  remained  steadfast  to  the 
ideals  he  had  created.  If  Carol  were  to  lose  him  as  a 
suitor,  she  should  never  know  that  her  first  and  fore- 
most suitor  had  gone  to  the  devil. 


THE  JVIAN  NOBODY  KNEW  269 

He  told  himself  fiercely  that  was  the  one  definite  and 
permanent  way  out  of  it.  .  .  .  Nobody  would  then 
have  cause  to  gossip  about  Dicky  Morgan ;  no  one  — 
after  the  first  natural  flood  of  excitement  and  de- 
nunciation —  would  remember  very  much  about  Henry 
Hilliard.  It  would  save  such  a  deal  of  needless  trouble ; 
it  would  save  such  a  wearisome  amount  of  shame. 

But  against  the  pitiless  background  of  the  war,  self- 
destruction  as  a  means  of  avoiding  personal  difficul- 
ties, self -caused,  seemed  curiously  repellent  —  curiously 
cheap. 

No  ...  it  was  a  part  of  his  own  grievance  that  Carol 
and  the  others  must  grieve,  too ;  he  had  a  dual  re- 
sponsibility to  society.  He  had  no  right  to  leave  these 
matters  clouded  by  any  uncertainty  of  motive.  Syra- 
cuse had  a  right  to  know  the  facts;  and  if  the  facts 
brought  pain  to  those  he  loved,  why,  that  was  some- 
thing he  should  have  thought  about  in  June,  and  not 
in  November. 

As  he  clung  comfortless  to  the  last  slipping  hours 
of  the  reputation  he  had  so  carefully  builded,  he  knew 
that  it  wasn't  the  punishment  of  the  law  that  he  dreaded, 
it  was  the  ostracism  which  would  accompany  it.  It 
wasn't  his  own  shame  which  gripped  him,  it  was  the 
consciousness  of  the  shame  which  would  attach  to  his 
friends.  And  so,  for  a  day  or  two,  all  his  faculties  were 
strung  upon  the  attitude  of  the  public  towards  him ; 
he  was  watching  frantically  for  the  first  faint  signs  of 
adverse  demeanour,  and  bracing  himself  for  the  shock 
which  was  unavoidably  to  come.  For  secrets  will  out, 
and  although  he  had  no  reason  to  expect  Waring  to 
break  his  pledge,  he  knew  that  when  rumour  smould- 
ers among  as  many  as  four  people,  there  comes  —  there 


«70  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

always  comes  —  a  moment  in  which  it  bursts  forth  in 
spontaneous  combustion. 

And  presently  he  sensed  a  subtle  super-charging  of 
the  atmosphere  whenever  he  met  a  male  acquaintance; 
he  couldn't  deny  that  the  greeting  of  his  bankers  was 
suddenly  less  informal,  more  impersonal ;  he  perceived, 
with  a  sinking  spasm  of  foreboding,  that  fewer  people 
stopped  to  chat  with  him  on  the  street  and  that  those 
who  still  were  willing  to  halt  and  pass  the  time  of  day 
were  uncommonly  restive  about  it.  Even  at  church, 
he  was  conscious  that  his  arrival  created  a  little  stir 
of  unecclesiastical  interest,  and  he  imagined  that  as  he 
dropped  his  golden  contribution  in  the  plate,  the  holder 
of  it  turned  his  nostrils  from  the  tainted  money.  Syra- 
cuse hadn't  yet  arrayed  itself  officially  against  him,  and 
a  part  of  Syracuse  was  outwardly  as  pleasant  as  ever, 
but  there  wasn't  the  slightest  question  that  the  story 
had  leaked  out,  and  that  it  had  got  itself  adherents. 
The  end  was  plainly  in  sight;  Armstrong's  report  was 
due.  Only  the  Cullens  and  the  Durants  and  one  or  two 
other  of  the  James  Street  families  were  quite  as  cordially 
attentive  as  formerly ;  and  to  Milliard's  vast  chagrin, 
they  rather  overdid  it  ...  he  seemed  to  feel  in  the 
steady  warmth  of  their  friendship  a  sort  of  blindly  un- 
seasonable resolution  to  support  him,  whether  or  no. 
This,  infinitely  more  than  the  cooling  manner  of  the 
majority,  galled  him  incessantly.  It  was  as  though 
they  rallied  to  his  defence  before  the  need  of  it  .  .  . 
it  was  as  though  they  conceded  in  advance  the  neces- 
sity of  such  a  defence. 

So  Hilliard  waited,  waited  .  .  .  smiling  upon  the 
world  his  hollow  smile,  carrying  through  the  city  the 
body  of  a  knave  and  the  face  of  a  martyr  and  the  soul 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  271 

of  a  gentleman  .  .  .  and  in  the  watches  of  the  night, 
he  was  perplexed  to  find  that  his  eyes  were  sometimes 
wet,  but  never  when  he  was  thinking  of  himself  —  al- 
ways when  he  was  thinking  of  Angela,  or  Carol,  or  — 
unexplainably  —  of  a  common-enough  representative  of 
the  French  bourgeoisie  named  Pierre  Dutout. 

( 

On  the  eighth  day,  he  chanced  to  meet  Dr.  Durant 
by  accident  in  front  of  the  Physicians  Building  at  high 
noon. 

"Hello,  there!  You're  just  in  time,"  said  the  Doc- 
tor, cheerfully.  "  I'm  going  over  to  the  University 
Club  for  lunch.     Won't  you  join  me?  " 

Hilliard  reddened ;  his  raw  sensibilities  told  him  that 
the  Doctor  wasn't  actuated  by  hospitality  alone. 

"  Why,"  he  said,  "  I'd  like  to,  but  — " 

"  I  want  your  advice,"  declared  the  Doctor,  ignor- 
ing the  implied  objection.  "  I'm  the  worst  business 
man  in  the  world  —  you  probably  know  that  by  this 
time.  And  I  trust  m}^  friends  for  friendship;  but 
when  I  want  advice,  I  go  to  an  expert.  So  you  qualify 
on  both  counts.     Come  along  over." 

Hilliard  was  flattered,  but  not  deceived, 

"  I'm  not  sure  that  my  advice  is  worth  anything 
half  as  expensive  as  a  luncheon.  Doctor." 

The  older  man  took  him  by  the  arm,  and  impelled 
him  across  the  street. 

"  That  depends  on  3^our  appetite,"  he  laughed. 
"  Come  along,  and  help  me  out  on  a  decision  I've  got  to 
make.     About  an  investment." 

Hilliard  hung  back  for  a  moment,  while  suspicion 
dawned  on  him. 

"  What  sort  of  investment.  Doctor.''  "  he  queried. 


27S  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

"  You  come  and  sit  down,"  urged  the  Doctor,  se- 
ductivel3\  "  And  we'll  talk  it  over  later.  But  first 
of  all  — "     He  patted  his  waistcoat.     "  Let's  eat." 

Hilliard  was  almost  too  grateful  to  speak;  the  Doc- 
tor's stratagem  was  patent,  but  in  all  chivalry  the 
invitation  couldn't  be  declined.  Once  inside  the  doors 
of  the  club,  however,  he  became  panicky;  for  his  first 
sweeping  reconnoissance  included  half  a  dozen  men 
whose  late  behaviour  had  indicated  that  they  knew. 
And  Hilliard  had  all  a  metropolitan's  sensitiveness  to 
the  spirit  and  to  the  ethics  of  a  men's  club.  He  fal- 
tered on  the  very  threshold ;  and  if  any  other  man  than 
Dr.  Durant  had  been  his  sponsor,  he  would  have  fled 
incontinently,  so  as  not  to  disturb  that  rare,  inde- 
scribable atmosphere  which  only  clubmen  understand 
and  respect. 

But  the  Doctor  was  inexorable;  he  drew  Hilliard 
under  the  mantle  of  his  own  unassailable  position,  and 
ploughed  ahead  with  the  utmost  serenity.  He  nodded 
here  and  there,  he  spoke  to  members  right  and  left; 
he  bowed  across  the  room ;  always  his  personality,  rather 
than  his  person,  seemed  to  be  escorting  and  guarding 
Hilliard;  and  Syracuse  couldn't  decline  to  acknowl- 
edge a  man  who  was  under  the  Doctor's  adequate  pro- 
tection. Those  who  spoke  to  the  Doctor  also  spoke 
to  Hilliard ;  there  was  no  way  out  of  it,  and  they  spoke 
as  casually  as  they  could.  They  also  nodded  to  him, 
and  bowed,  but  when  his  back  was  turned,  they  became 
low-voiced  and  communicative,  and  he  knew  it.  When 
at  length  the  pair  had  gained  the  table  nearest  the 
window,  Hilliard  felt  that  he  had  undergone  a  strenu- 
ous ordeal ;  he  was  consumed  by  gratitude  to  his  im- 
placable host,  but  he  had  no  inclination  to  repeat  it. 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  273 

The  Doctor  was  scrutinizing  the  menu ;  Hilliard,  who 
faced  the  window,  threw  a  glance  over  his  shoulder.  As 
he  had  fancied,  the  eyes  of  the  room  were  upon  him. 
They  reminded  him,  oddly  enough,  of  machine-gun  bat- 
teries. 

"  The  table  d'hote's  good  enough  for  me,"  said  the 
Doctor  presently.     "  And  you?  " 

"  And  for  me,  too,"  said  Hilliard. 

"  Anything  to  drink  ?  " 

«  No,  thanks." 

The  Doctor  dropped  the  card ;  and  sat  up  straighter. 

"  Well,  I  won't  keep  you  in  suspense  —  I  want  some 
advice.  As  I  said,  I'm  the  worst  business  man  in  the 
world,  Hilliard.  I'm  a  mere  child  in  your  hands  — 
so  please  treat  me  tenderly."  He  regarded  his  com- 
panion with  mingled  humour  and  seriousness.  "  James 
Cullen  has  been  telling  me  about  a  wonderful  plan  of 
yours  to  make  a  nice  shiny  gold  eagle  grow  where  only 
a  silver  quarter  grew  before.  In  fact,  he  talked  so 
enthusiastically  that  he's  got  me  thinking  about  it, 
too.  ...  I  rather  reseni:  your  not  telling  me  about 
it  yourself." 

Hilliard  recoiled. 

"You  shouldn't  do  that!"  he  said.  "I  ...  I 
wouldn't  have  tried  to  interest  you  in  it.  Doctor,  be- 
cause — " 

"  Oh,  I  can  see  your  reasons,"  deprecated  the  Doc- 
tor, smilingly.  "  You  didn't  want  to  trespass  on  a 
purely  social  relationship.  I  appreciate  that.  But  the 
point  is,  I've  got  a  few  thousand  dollars  I  don't  exactly 
know  what  to  do  with.  It's  a  rather  extraordinary 
situation  for  a  professional  man,  isn't  it.'*  I'll  have 
to  admit  I'm  puzzled  about  it  myself.     And  the  novelty 


274.  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

might  lead  me  into  temptation.  So  I  thought  I'd  ask 
your  advice." 

"  You  can  have  the  best  I've  got,"  said  Hilliard, 
averted.  "  But  I'm  not  guaranteeing  that  it  has  much 
value,  Doctor." 

The  Doctor  nodded;  drummed  on  the  table. 

"  Do  you  ever  let  friendship  interfere  with  busi- 
ness.'^ " 

"  Often,  sir." 

"  Will  you  let  it  interfere  now  —  if  you  think  you're 
justified?" 

"  Yes,  Doctor.  ...  I  can  promise  that  much,  any- 
way." 

The  Doctor  showed  his  approval. 

"  Well,  tell  me  perfectly  frankly,  then, —  is  yours 
the  sort  of  proposition  you'd  let  a  man  invest  in,  if 
you  knew  he  had  precious  little  money  to  lose.^^  But 
if  you  also  knew  that  he  were  quite  willing  to  take  the 
same  chance  as  the  rest?  " 

Hilliard  shook  his  head  slowly,  and  continued  to 
shake  it  as  he  replied. 

"  I  can't  say  that  it  is.  Doctor.  On  the  contrary 
—  I  don't  think  it's  that  sort  of  proposition  at  all." 

Dr.  Durant's  brows  were  contracted. 

"  But  in  the  ordinary  run  of  commerce,  Hilliard  — 
suppose  the  question  of  friendship  didn't  enter  into  this, 
and  I  hadn't  brought  up  that  subject  —  would  you,  in 
choosing  3^our  list  of  subscribers,  and  selecting  the  peo- 
ple you'd  like  to  have  share  the  plan  with  you,  put  a 
man  like  myself  on  any  different  footing  than  James 
Cullen?     Or  wouldn't  you?  " 

"  Doctor  Durant,"  Hilliard's  voice  was  slow,  "  is 
it  possible  you  haven't  heard  the  .  .  .  the   criticism 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  276 

that's  been  fljlng  around  town  about  this  syndicate  of 
mine?  Haven't  jou  heard  that  there's  some  question 
whether  it's  quite  sound?  " 

"  I've  heard  it  —  jes."  The  Doctor  was  amazingly 
indifferent. 

"  Well  —  do  you  still  think  this  is  any  time  to  dis- 
cuss the  possibility  of  your  coming  in  with  us?  " 

The  Doctor's  voice  was  strong,  encouraging. 

"  I  think  it's  the  best  time,  and  the  only  time  —  for 
me,  that  is.  I've  lived  too  long  to  be  affected  by  chance 
rumours.     And  besides,  I've  got  the  money  now." 

"  But  are  3^ou  sure  you  know  what  it's  all  about? 
The  criticism,  I  mean." 

"  I  don't  know  anything  about  it  at  all.  That's 
exactly  why  I'm  coming  to  you  for  advice." 

"  On  .   .   .  what  grounds?" 

The  Doctor  gesticulated. 

"  Why,  the  only  grounds  I  could  have.  You  cer- 
tainly ought  to  know  more  about  it  than  any  one  else 
does.  And  therefore,  I'd  take  your  word  for  it  before 
I'd  take  the  rumour.  I  want  to  know  if  you'll  accept 
me  as  one  of  the  members  of  your  syndicate." 

Hilliard  gasped  and  pushed  himself  back  from  the 
table. 

"  Doctor!  " 

"  In  a  way,"  said  Dr.  Durant  genially,  "  I'm  putting 
you  at  a  great  disadvantage  —  I  know  that.  But,  as  I 
said,  I'm  not  a  business  man.  I  have  to  be  guided  more 
or  less  by  instinct.  Your  business  is  to  know  all  about 
these  things.  So  I'm  coming  to  you  for  your  honest 
opinion,  and  I  know  3^ou'll  give  it  to  me  ...  do  you 
think  I'm  quite  eligible?  " 

Hilliard's  heart  was  in  his  mouth. 


276  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

"  Why,"  he  stammered,  "  at  this  particular  time 
—  I  can't  advise  jou  — " 

"  Now,  don't  be  too  cautions,"  warned  the  Doctor. 
"  All  I  want  is  3'our  expert  opinion,  without  any  quali- 
fications attached.  I'm  not  asking  3'ou  if  this  is  the 
best  investment  the  world  has  ever  seen  —  I'm  asking 
if  it's  reasonably  safe,  as  such  things  go,  with  a  chance 
of  something  really  good  if  your  best  expectations 
work  out  as  you  hope." 

Hilliard's  throat  was  dusty,  and  his  reply  came  with 
some   difficulty. 

"  In  spite  of  .  .  .  everything,  you'd  .  .  .  you'd  take 
my  word  for  it,  Doctor.''  " 

"  Yes,  I  would,  and  I've  got  Cullen  and  my  own 
daughter  to  agree  with  me.  I  don't  think  that  the 
three  of  us  would  make  the  same  mistake  about  the 
same  man  at  the  same  time.  One  of  us  might,  but  not 
all  three!  Certainly  I'll  take  your  word  for  it. 
Would  you  let  me  invest  say  .  .  .  seventy-five  hundred 
dollars.?" 

Hilliard  gulped. 

"  Not  now  —  no,  sir." 

The  Doctor  expressed  a  mild  astonishment. 

"  Suppose  I'd  asked  you  a  week  ago  —  before  this 
miserable  story  began  to  go  the  rounds.?  " 

"  I'd  have  taken  it  then  —  perhaps." 

The  Doctor's  eyes  snapped. 

"  You're  retiring  under  fire  —  are  you.?  " 

"  No,  sir  — ^  digging  in." 

"Simply  because  of  a  fatherless  report?" 

"  No,  its  parents  are  pretty  lively.  And  the  .  .  . 
the  recent  developments  haven't  been  what  we  .  .  .  ex- 
pected.    It  isn't  on  account  of  the  rumours  that  I  can't 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  277 

let   you   in,   Doctor  —  it's    on   account   of   the   facts." 

The  Doctor  remained  silent  until  the  waiter  had 
served  thcni,  and  departed.  Then  he  looked  keenly 
across  the  table. 

"  Cullen  isn't  going  to  lose  his  money,  is  he.''  " 

"  Not  all  of  it,  anyway." 

"Some  of  it?" 

"  You  never  can  tell." 

"  And  are  you  obligated  in  any  way  to  make  good 
his  loss.''  You  personally,  I  mean.''  Either  legally  or 
morally.?  " 

Hilliard  sighed  dispiritedly. 

*'  Why,  seeing  that  not  one  of  these  men  ever  saw 
the  property,  or  knows  anything  about  it,  or  about 
copper  mining  in  general,  except  what  I  told  them,  I 
feel  morally  responsible  for  every  cent  that's  lost, 
whether  I've  any  legal  responsibility  or  not.  That 
is,  I'd  make  it  good  —  if  I  could.  Of  course,  I'm  hop- 
ing that  nothing  will  be  lost,  but  — " 

The  Doctor's  ej^es  brightened. 

"  Do  Cullen  and  his  friends  understand  that  you  hold 
yourself  responsible?  " 

"  I  think  not.     I  haven't  said  so  to  them  yet." 

"  It  isn't  a  part  of  your  bargain?  " 

"  No,  sir." 

"  They're  paying  you  a  brilliant  compliment,  then." 

"  I  realize  that  fulh^,"  said  Hilliard,  writhing.  The 
Doctor  toyed  with  his  fork. 

"  You'd  do  the  same  for  me,  I  suppose,  if  I  were  one 
of  your  group?  " 

"  Why,  of  course  —  if  you  had  been." 

**  But  you  wouldn't  advise  me  to  go  into  it,  you 
say,  under  present  conditions?  " 


278  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

"  No,  sir,  I  wouldn't.     I  wouldn't  permit  it." 

"  I  thought  you  wouldn't."  The  Doctor  sipped  a 
glass  of  water  thoughtfully.  "  And  that  leaves  me 
with  seventy-five  hundred  dollars  I  still  don't  know 
what  to  do  with.  Well,  if  you  can  think  of  any  reason- 
able use  for  it  within  the  next  few  weeks,  let  me  know, 
will  you?     I'll  keep  it  intact  until  I  hear  from  3'ou." 

Something  in  his  tone  snatched  at  Hilliard's  heart, 
he  went  as  white  as  paper. 

"  Dr.  Durant !  " 

The  Doctor  smiled  sllghtlj^  "  Any  reasonable  use, 
I  said.     Any  form  of  investment  that  — " 

Hilliard  was  practically  tongue-tied. 

"  Dr.  Durant  ...  if  I  ...  if  I  see  what  you  mean 
...  I  ...  if  you're  willing  to  take  my  advice, 
why  — " 

"  I'm  sixty-three  years  old,"  said  the  Doctor,  calmly, 
"  and  I've  made  a  fool  of  myself  in  every  conceivable 
way  but  one.  .  .  .  That's  in  my  own  field;  I'm  a  di- 
agnostician. I've  watched  you  very  carefully,  young 
man.  ...  I  think  perhaps  you  need  as  much  advice  as 
I  do,  of  a  different  variety.  So  here  it  is  —  when  you 
—  want  encouragement,  or  a  medical  prescription,  or  a 
good  cigar  and  a  chat,  or  a  quiet  evening  with  an  old 
man  and  a  girl  who  plays  the  piano  rather  pleasantly? 
or  seventy-five  hundred  dollars  which  you've  already 
shown  you  won't  let  me  invest  unwisely,  come  and  see 
me.  Now  let's  drop  business.  Not  another  word: 
I'm  tired  of  it.  You're  through  as  an  expert ;  let's 
get  back  to  old-fashioned  friendship.  Speaking  of  com- 
ing to  see  me, —  Carol's  wondering  if  you're  trying  to 
slight  her.     We've  seen  very  little  of  you  lately.?     It's 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  279 

a  week  now,  isn't  it?     And  you've  never  even  told  me 
how  you  liked  my  pamphlet?  " 

When,  sustained  and  soothed  by  that  peaceful  hour, 
by  the  Doctor's  trust  in  his  integrity,  and  by  the 
sedative  of  a  long  and  untroubled  stroll  out  over  the 
hills  to  eastward,  he  returned  to  the  hotel,  the  room 
clerk  greeted  him  with  faint  superciliousness. 

"  Somebody's  been  keeping  after  you  on  the  tele- 
phone all  the  morning,"  he  said  loftily.  "  New  York 
call.  Couldn't  locate  you.  And  here's  some  telegrams 
for  you  .  .  ." 

There  were  three  of  them;  at  sight  of  the  signature 
of  the  first,  Hilliard's  eyes  narrowed. 

ARRIVING  SYRACUSE  4.15  PLEASE  MEET  ME 
AT  TRAIN  AND  STOP  ALL  WORK  IN  THE  MEAN- 
TIME LilPERATIVE 

HARMON 

Hilliard's  eyelids  fluttered ;  this  was  evidently  the 
initial  result  of  Rufus  Waring's  efforts,  and  of  those 
many  letters  he  had  written  Harmon.  He  tore  open  the 
second  envelope ;  the  message  was  again  from  the  broker, 
sent  obviously  from  the  Grand  Central  Terminal  just 
before  train-time. 

MOST    IMPORTANT    NEWS    RECEIVED    AM    JUST 
LEAVING    HAVING    WIRED    YOU    MEET    ME    AT 
STATION  4.15   FIND  OUT  WHO  ROB   WARING 
IS    AND    WHAT    HE    WANTS    DO    ALL   YOU    CAN 
TO    STAVE    OFF    FURTHER    INQUIRY    ABSOLUTELY 
IMPERATIVE    NOT    TALK    TO    ANY    ONE    UNTIL 


280  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

I    SEE    YOU    HAVE    CONTRACT    AND    ALL    OTHER 
DATA    WITH    YOU    SHALL    HAVE    TO    LEAVE 
ON    SHORT    NOTICE  HARMON 

And  the  third  was  from  Albany : 

LOCATE   ROB    WARING   IF    POSSIBLE   AND 
ARRANGE   MEETING    SEVEN    TONIGHT    URGENTLY 
IMPERATIVE  HARMON 

Hilliard  folded  the  three  sheets  methodically  and  put 
them  in  his  pocket.  He  glanced  at  his  watch;  it 
showed  a  quarter  to  four.  He  had  no  dependence  on 
Harmon,  and  no  fear  of  him;  he  felt  no  obligation  to 
Harmon,  no  sense  of  duty.  To  be  sure,  he  had  a 
cynic's  curiosity  to  see  what  was  in  the  middle  of  the 
whirlwind,  but  that  of  itself  wasn't  strong  enough  to 
send  him  to  a  rendezvous  with  a  man  he  despised  and 
loathed. 

"  If  I  go,"  he  said  to  himself,  "  I'll  be  sorry ;  and  if 
I  don't  go  .  .  .  why,  if  I  don't  go,  I'll  always  wonder 
if  it  would  have  done  any  good  !  " 

For  himself,  there  was  nothing  promising  in  the  situa- 
tion. But  on  the  millionth  chance  that  something  of 
benefit  to  his  subscribers  might  come  out  of  it  —  on 
the  millionth  chance  that  Harmon  might  be  frightened 
or  persuaded  into  compromise  — 

So  he  went. 


XVII 

THE  very  first  passenger  to  reach  the  platform  was 
Harmon;  indeed,  he  had  been  fretting  in  the 
vestibule  for  half  an  hour,  intent  on  saving  a  useless 
fraction  of  a  second  when  the  train  stopped.  At  sight 
of  HiUiard,  he  beamed  beneficently  —  all  his  earlier  bel- 
ligerence forgotten. 

"  Hello !  "  he  said.  "  Glad  to  see  you,  son.  Got  all 
my  messages,  did  you?  " 

He  shook  hands  with  great  urbanity ;  Hilliard's  grasp 
was  hardly  responsible. 

"  I  got  three,"  said  Hilliard,  dignified  and  non-com- 
mittal ;  and  he  continued  to  inspect  his  employer  with 
ill-concealed  disfavour  and  distrust. 

"  Well,  that's  all  I  sent.  Now,  where  can  we  go  sit 
down  and  talk,  for  a  couple  of  hours?  There's  a  lot 
to  go  over,  but  I  want  to  take  the  9.40  west.  Not  to 
the  Onondaga  —  I'd  rather  go  somewhere  quieter.  Got 
your  car  here?  " 

Hilliard  shook  his  head. 

"No.  How  about  the  Kirk?  That's  the  nearest 
place  that's  any  good." 

"  Suits  me  all  right  if  it  does  you." 

"  Any  luggage  ?  "  They  were  crossing  the  tracks 
to  the  waiting-room;  and  Hilliard,  in  spite  of  himself, 
couldn't  refrain  from  the  solicitude  which  any  right- 
minded  resident  of  a  city  feels  for  the  transient  just  ar- 
rived. 

"  Only   this   Gladstone.     I  can  check   that  here,   I 

281 


^2  THE  IVIAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

guess.  Well,  I'm  certainly  glad  to  see  j'ou.  Sa}^  were 
you  able  to  make  a  date  with  this  Waring  person?  It 
was  pretty  short  notice,  but  you're  such  a  live  wire  — " 

Milliard,  fully  comprehending  the  nature  of  the  com- 
pliment, smiled  faintly.  The  jjerson  of  the  broker  was 
physically  repulsive  to  him ;  unconsciously  he  edged  fur- 
ther away. 

"  Not  yet.  But  I've  left  word  at  his  house  for  him 
to  call  me  at  the  hotel,  and  I'll  telephone  to  the  in- 
formation clerk  from  the  Kirk  where  he  can  reach  me. 
He's  sure  to  be  in  around  five  or  half  past." 

"  I  hope  so."  Harmon  swung  his  heavy  bag  to  the 
brass-lined  counter,  and  tossed  out  a  dime  with  a 
philanthropic  gesture  which  made  the  attendant  glare 
at  him.     "Who  in  thunder  is  he,  anyhow?" 

Hilliard  had  reason  to  be  reticent  with  his  facts, 
and  he  preferred  not  to  be  too  specific  at  the  outset, 

"  He's  a  law  student  —  an  old  friend  of  the  Cullens. 
He's  looking  after  some  of  their  interests,  in  one  way 
and  another." 

"  Oh !  Working  up  a  practice  1  Am  I  right  or  am 
I  wrong?  Well!  the  way  he's  been  bombarding  me 
with  fresh  letters,  you'd  think  he  was  on  a  congressional 
investigating  committee !  Say  !  There's  one  tiling  I'd 
like  to  find  out  —  how'd  he  know  /'m  in  the  thing? 
You  didn't  tell  anybody,  did  you?     Our  agreement — " 

Hilliard  was  guiding  him  to  the  street. 

"  Why,  he  probably  got  hold  of  your  name  when 
he  wrote  to  some  law  correspondents  of  his  in  Butte 
about  the  property ;  and  they  looked  it  up  for  him.  I'd 
judge  they  must  have  gone  into  it  rather  thoroughly." 

"  They  did !     Humph !  "     The  broker's  tone  held  less 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  ^83 

of  rancour  and  more  of  disappointment  than  Hilliard 
would  have  expected.  "  And  they  made  an  unfavour- 
able report  on  it,  did  they?  " 

"  Unfortunately,  for  you,  they  did  .  .  .  as  you  very 

well  know." 

Harmon  turned  on  him  sharply.  ^    ^^ 

"  What  do  you  mean  '  unfortunately  for  me '? 

Hilliard  turned  into  a  wide  doorway. 

«  We  go  in  here.  .  .  .  Why,  it  puts  the  quietus  on 
any  last  hope  of  yours  that  there's  still  some  business 
to  be  done  in  Syracuse,  doesn't  it.?  I  should  think 
that's  about  as  plain  as  dayhght." 

Harmon's  brows  went  up. 

"  Wha-a-t?  "  he  said,  and  then,  promptly.  Oh,  yes 
—  of  course.  But  you've  been  such  a  live  wire  from 
start  to  finish,  I  thought  the  harder  the  proposition, 

the  better  you'd  — "  .,     .  .     ui 

"  Oh,  don't  make  me  wish  I  hadn't  taken  the  trouble 
to  meet  you!"  snapped  Hilliard.  He  shpped  mto  the 
first  unoccupied  booth;  Harmon  followed  him  stupidly. 
«  The  thing's  done  for,  and  you  know  it.  Don't  act 
so  innocent,  Mr.  Harmon  — it  isn't  becoming  to  you, 
and  it  isn't  helpful  to  me.  We're  in  a  position  to  talk 
English,  I  should  imagine." 

Harmon's  eyes  were  very  small  and  bright. 

"  No,  but  .  .  .  what's  he  been  saying  around  here? 

«  Saying  it's  a  fake  promotion.  What  else  would 
he  say  ?  He's  quite  intelligent.  That's  why  it's  unfor- 
tunate for  you,  and  that's  why  we  don't  need  to  fool 
ourselves  any  further  —  isn't  it?  " 

As  Harmon  removed  his  hat,  he  appeared  to  be  some- 
what warmer  than  the  temperature  warranted.     His 


^84  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

round  face  was  now  preternaturally  blank ;  but  his  ur- 
banity had  increased  until  he  was  on  the  verge  of  fawn- 
ing. 

"  So  he's  been  giving  out  a  pretty  bad  story,  has 
he?" 

"  Only  the  bare  facts.  And  if  you  don't  know  it 
already,  I'll  tell  you  now  that  he's  got  a  representative 
out  there  on  the  ground,  so  that  — " 

Harmon  bit  his  lip.  "  A  representative?  When  did 
that  happen?  " 

"  Nearly  a  week  ago.  It's  about  time  to  hear  from 
him,  and  then  the  goose  will  be  cooked." 

The  broker  reflected  diligently. 

"Haven't  seen  him  today,  have  you?  I  mean  this 
Waring  man." 

"  No,  I  haven't." 

"Or  yesterday?" 

"  No ;  not  for  nearly  a  week." 

Harmon  sat  back,  and  massaged  his  forehead  ab- 
sent-mindedly. 

"Well  —  has   this   made  much  difference  to  you?" 

"How  could  it  help  it?"  HiUiard  grimaced. 
"  This  isn't  New  York  City,  or  a  deaf  and  dumb  asylum. 
News  doesn't  have  to  travel  fast  to  make  the  rounds. 
Everybody  who's  ever  heard  my  name  knows  it  by 
this  time." 

Harmon  leaned  forward  on  his  elbows,  and  drew  a 
quick,  nervous  breath.  His  eyes,  now  slightly  dilated, 
sought  for  Hilliard's,  found  them,  darted  away  again. 

"That's  tough  .  .  .  mighty  tough.  ...  I  ...  I 
came  up  here  thinking  I  might  do  something  about  it. 
Save  the  situation,  you  know.     Too  late,  is  it?  " 

"  A  good  deal  too  late," 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  285 

Harmon  exhaled  lengthily,  and  fumbled  for  his  in- 
variable cigarette ;  Hilliard  observed,  without  particular 
deduction,  that  his  hands  lacked  certaint}^ 

"  That  does  sort  of  burst  the  bubble,  doesn't  it? 
Well  ...  I  suppose  the  next  step  you  want  to  take 
is  to  get  out  of  town." 

"  No,"  said  HiUiard,  "  I'll  stay  till  it's  over  with." 

Harmon  gasped. 

"  Stay?  Stay  here  after  the  news  is  out?  What 
/or?" 

"  I  hardly  think  you'd  understand  what  I'm  stay- 
ing for,  Mr.  Harmon." 

The  fat  broker  shook  his  head  in  vigorous  protest. 

"  Now,  look  here !  "  His  voice  was  paternally  kind, 
"  You've  been  a  fine  sport  through  this  whole  busi- 
ness, except  once,  and  we  won't  let  that  bother  us  now. 
As  a  salesman,  you've  been  a  holy  wonder.  You've 
done  all  I  ever  expected  you'd  do,  or  could  do,  and 
then  some.  And  your  flare-up  last  time  I  was  here  don't 
hurt  you  with  me  one  little  bit.  But  here  we  are  at  the 
finish.  The  game's  played  out,  and  there's  no  use 
hanging  around  the  table  to  watch  the  waiters  clean 
up.  M}^  suggestion  to  you  is  to  pack  your  duds,  and 
get  out.  Call  it  a  day,  and  quit.  There's  better  busi- 
ness somewhere  else.  And  if  you'd  like  to  plant  your- 
self in  some  other  good  town,  say,  Detroit,  and  — " 

"  No,  thanlcs."  Hilliard's  smile  was  out  of  genuine 
humour. 

"  Well,  aren't  you  open  to  conviction  ?  " 

"  No,  I  don't  think  I  am.  Please  don't  argue  — 
that's  final." 

Harmon  lighted  the  cigarette,  and  studied  the  first 
cloud  of  smoke  attentively. 


286  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

"  Well,  you're  sure  you  can't  do  any  more  here,  aren't 
you?" 

"  Not  a  nickel's  worth  —  even  if  I  wanted  to.  And 
would  3'ou  mind  getting  down  to  brass  tacks?  Other- 
wise, I  can't  see  any  benefit  to  either  of  us  from  pro- 
longing this  interview;  can  you?" 

Harmon  inspected  him  carefully ;  and  seemed  to  be 
struck  with  an  inspiration. 

"  I'm  not  sure  of  it  at  that  —  look  here  now !  I've 
got  an  idea !  Let's  try  to  get  some  benefit  out  of  it. 
Suppose  you  got  clear  of  this  mess.  Suppose  we 
straighten  it  out  from  top  to  bottom.  Everybody 
satisfied.  Suppose  you  got  out  of  it  absolutely  clean; 
do  you  think  3'ou  could  take  your  experience  and  your 
front  and  your  energy,  and  cash  in  on  some  better 
business  ?  " 

Hilliard  exclaimed  aloud;  he  could  hardly  credit  his 
ears. 

"What's  that?"  he  managed.  "I  don't  under- 
stand !  " 

The  broker's  eyes  brightened.  "  It's  easy  enough 
if  you  put  your  mind  to  it.  I've  told  3-ou  before,"  he 
said  impressiveh^,  "  I'm  out  for  results.  That's  my 
middle  name  —  R-E-sults.  And  not  results  from  min- 
ute to  minute,  but  results  in  the  long  run.  Now  it 
does  seem  to  me  like  an  awful  shame  to  have  you  come 
up  here,  and  spend  all  this  time  and  money  flub-dubbing 
around,  and  then  have  it  all  over  with,  and  nothing 
to  show  for  it  but  a  lot  of  beUy-aching  customers. 
Of  course  we've  made  a  little  money,  but  when  we  let 
this  scheme  wind  up  in  a  big  howl  from  everybody 
we've  got  into  it,  we're  losing  the  cumulative  value  of 
you.     And  it's  you  that  was  the  backbone  of  the  whole 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  287 

idea.  Now  —  this  is  only  a  passing  thought,  but  let's 
consider  it  —  which  way  would  be  the  best  for  us  in 
the  long  run,  to  close  up  this  deal  and  get  out  from 
under,  and  take  a  little  profit  and  be  in  dutch  here  for 
ever,  or  to  be  a  couple  of  philanthropists  and  play 
strong  for  the  future?  " 

"  How  do  you  mean?  "     Hilliard  was  afire  with  hope. 

The  broker's  smile  was  every  moment  more  broadly 
ingratiating. 

"  Why,  suppose  I  should  hand  you  back  every  cent 
you've  collected  and  paid  in.  This  is  just  a  suggestion 
—  I  want  your  opinion  on  it.  You  go  'round  to  your 
subscribers ;  tell  'em  the  mine  isn't  as  promising  as 
you  thought  it  was ;  you're  going  to  make  good ;  give 
'em  their  money  back.  Now  —  if  you  did  that,  and 
left  a  first-class  impression  everywhere,  could  you  start 
from  scratch  all  over  again,  and  sell  enough  honest- 
to-goodness  conservative  stuff  —  municipals,  or  like 
that  —  to  those  same  people  to  make  up  the  differ- 
ence.^ "     He  was  studj^ing  his  companion  keenly. 

Hilliard's  eyes  blazed;  the  audacity  of  the  suggestion 
was  obscured  by  the  posslbilit}^  of  honour  that  it  con- 
tained. "  Yes!  "  he  said  thickly.  "  Yes!  You  bet 
I  could!" 

"  And  you  wouldn't  be  afraid  to  keep  on  working  for 
me?  That  is,  if  we  got  this  Silverbow  scheme  all 
laundered  clean  before  we  started  something  else?  " 

"  Not  if  you  — " 

"  Then  listen !  "  The  broker's  voice  was  soft  and 
homiletical.  "  You've  thought  some  hard  things 
about  me.  Maybe  you  had  some  cause;  I'm  not  dis- 
puting that.  But  I  guess  you've  forgotten  something. 
Something  I  told  you  when  we  first  got  together.     I 


^88  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

told  you  if  you  got  me  what  I  wanted,  I'd  help  you  get 
what  you  want.  Well  —  you've  done  your  best.  I  got 
to  give  you  credit.  And  maybe  you've  changed  some  of 
my  ideas,  too.  Mayhc  you've  sort  of  worked  me  around 
to  believing  I  haven't  given  you  a  square  deal.  Well  — 
let  the  past  bury  its  dead.  I've  got  more  than  one 
string  to  my  bow;  I'm  sort  of  tired  of  the  old  line  of 
stuff;  I'm  thinking  seriously  of  cutting  it  all  out,  and 
going  in  for  the  safe  and  sane.  It  isn't  so  juicy,  but 
it's  safe.  Am  I  right  or  am  I  wrong  .^^  All  the  cards 
on  the  table  —  I'm  no  fool,  Hilliard  —  and  the  bottom's 
falling  out  of  the  promotion  game.  So  if  you  think 
you  can  blossom  out  into  a  legitimate  salesman  of  high- 
grade  bonds  —  of  course  there  wouldn't  be  nearly  as 
much  in  it  for  you  —  I've  got  more  than  half  a  mind 
to  give  you  the  chance.  It's  a  risk,  but  I  guess  I  owe 
it  to  you."  He  slid  his  pudgy  hand  across  the  table, 
and  smiled  pacifically.  "  I've  taken  a  strong  fancy 
to  you,  son  —  let's  be  respectable  together.  What  do 
you  say  to  that  ?  " 

In  his  feverish  joy,  Hilliard  was  willing  to  ignore 
the  obvious  fact  that  the  broker's  repentance  was  con- 
siderably overdue,  and  that  it  was  founded  on  expedi- 
ency and  not  on  principle.  And  he  wasn't  thinking  so 
much  of  his  own  exculpation,  or  of  his  own  potential 
fortune,  as  he  was  of  the  protection  to  Cullen,  and  to 
Cullen's  friends.  The  thought  of  working  longer  for 
Harmon  —  even  if  the  securities  he  had  to  sell  in  future 
were  most  conservative  —  filled  him  with  nausea ;  but 
if  that  were  the  only  way  to  save  the  situation,  how 
could  Hilliard  decline.'^  How,  in  view  of  his  late  moral- 
ity, could  he  put  his  own  tastes  above  the  security  of 
his  trusting  clients  ?     How,  in  his  duty  to  himself,  could 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  289 

he  refuse  to  work  again  for  Harmon,  if  this  were  the 
only  means  to  save  his  friends  their  money  already 
lost?     He  felt  his  veins  throbbing  to  his  agitation. 

"Is  ...  is   that   a   hona-fide   offer?"   he   faltered. 

Harmon's  hand  slapped  the  table  for  emphasis. 

"  Straight  as  a  string.  To  tell  the  truth,  you're 
sort  of  on  my  conscience.  You're  with  me?  All  right! 
Then  as  far  as  I'm  concerned,  the  contract's  cancelled 
here  and  now.  There's  no  use  shadow-boxing  when  the 
main  bout's  finished.     Got  it  with  you?  " 

"  No,  I  — " 

The  broker's  face  darkened.     "  Where  is  it  ?  " 

Hilliard  was  disinclined  to  tell  how  and  why  he  had 
entrusted  it  to  Cullen.  "  It's  safe,"  he  said.  He  could 
hardly  contain  himself ;  he  looked  and  looked  at  Harmon, 
trying  faithfully  to  reconcile  the  man  and  his  ap- 
pearance and  his  principles,  and  he  failed  —  but  here 
was  the  great  reality  confronting  him  —  and  the  mil- 
lionth chance  had  magically  come  true.  It  was  warped 
honesty,  but  it  was  honesty  no  less. 

Harmon  licked  his  lips. 

"  Well,  we'll  clean  up  the  whole  transaction  today, 
and  start  with  a  new  deal.  That's  settled.  Oh,  don't 
carry  on  like  that,  Hilliard. —  Now  about  this  chap 
Waring  — " 

"  Oh,  you  still  want  to  see  him,  do  you?  " 

Harmon  hesitated.  "  Sure !  Give  him  a  little  sur- 
prise, eh?  If  he's  the  man  who's  been  bombarding  us, 
we'll  spike  his  guns  first. —  What?  "  He  laughed  nois- 
ily, and  Hilliard  was  almost  too  excited  to  dislike  the 
laugh.  "  Don't  bother  to  telephone  the  Onondaga ; 
we'll  just  walk  over." 

"  But  I  thought   you  wanted   to   stay   away   from 


290  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

there?"  Hilliard  was  displaying  many  of  the  symp- 
toms of  intoxication. 

*'  Oh,  not  when  everything's  going  along  so  smooth 
and  nice!  We  can  go  up  in  your  room,  and  have 
Waring  up  there,  and  be  just  as  private  as  anywhere 
else." 

Accordingly^  and  to  the  chagrin  of  a  hovering 
waiter,  they  quitted  their  booth  and  went  out  to  the 
open  air.  They  reached  the  Onondaga ;  they  arrived 
at  the  mezzanine  floor;  they  were  safe  in  Hilliard's 
apartment. 

"My!"  said  Harmon  jocosely.  "I  wish  I  could 
afford  to  live  like  this !  But  you've  got  a  rich  backer, 
and  I  haven't."  He  rubbed  his  hands  in  great  good- 
nature; his  eyes  were  sparkling,  and  his  fat  body  was 
aquiver  with  vitality.  "  Well,  the  first  thing  to  do. 
.  .  .  Where  did  you  say  you  keep  that  contract  of 
ours  hidden?  " 

"  Is  there  an}^  hurry  about  that  now  ?  "  Hilliard 
was  fairly  beside  himself  with  joy. 

"  Well  — "  The  sudden  whirr  of  the  telephone  buz- 
zer seemed  to  ruffle  the  broker's  nerves ;  for  he  started 
violently.     "Who's  that?" 

"  Just  a  moment.  .  .  ."  Hilliard  took  down  the 
receiver.  "Yes?  .  .  .  Oh,  yes,  have  him  ...  no ; 
hold  the  wire  — "  He  beckoned  hilariousl}^  to  Harmon. 
"  Waring's  downstairs  now !  You're  ready  to  see  him, 
aren't  you?  " 

The  broker  was  suddenly  plunged  into  uncertainty. 

"Yes  — no!     No!'' 

"  What's  wrong?  "  Hilliard  was  visited  by  an  un- 
welcome chill;  he  tried  to  analyse  it,  and  couldn't. 

The  big  man  was  breathing  with  difficulty.     "  I  .  .  . 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  291 

you  go  down  and  .  .  .  no,  that  wouldn't  do,  either. 
...  I  want  to  see  him  alone.  I  want  to  get  him  to 
call  off  his  investigator,  so  when  we  begin  a  new  cam- 
paign we  won't  have  any  verified  report  against  us  on 

the  old  — " 

"No,  sir!"  Milliard  shook  his  head  smilmgly. 
"  I'm  the  man  who's  had  to  stand  the  gaff  so  far ;  I'm 
going  to  be  in  on  any  conferences.     That's  my  pay!" 

Harmon  licked  his  lips  again,  and  swallowed  re- 
peatedly. 

"  Well  .  .  .  it's  ...  if  you  let  me  do  the  talking, 

then  .   .  .  or  .  .  ." 

Hilliard  turned  back  to  the  transmitter. 

"  Ask  him  to  come  right  up,"  he  said.  He  replaced 
the  instrument,  and  looked  alarmedly  at  the  broker. 
"You're  not  well!" 

"Yes,  I  am  .  .  .  now  let's  get  at  that  contract! 
There's  no  sense  talking  new  business  until  that's  can- 
celled, is  there  ?  " 

As  Hilliard  stared  at  him,  an  icy  wave  of  suspicion 
swept  him  from  head  to  foot. 

"  What's  your  hurry?     It's  my  funeral,  isn't  it.?  " 

"  There  isn't  any  hurry,  but  — " 

"  You  are  anxious,  though !     Harmon,  I  — " 

"No  ...  no  hurry  at  all.  Only  as  long  as  I'm 
here  ...  and  the  game's  played  out  ...  as  a  favour 
to  me  .  .  .  let's  cancel  it.  Where  is  it?  I  .  .  . 
Good  God,  son,  don't  you  want  that  thing  out  of  the 
way?     It's  no  good  with  an  alias  on  it!  '  I'll  put  up 

the  money  —  I  — " 

A  sharp  rap  on  the  door  stopped  him  short.  Hil- 
liard turned  the  knob ;  Waring  and  Mr.  Cullen  burst  in. 

"Why,    Mr.    Cullen!"    he    said    in    astonishment. 


293  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

"  Thej  didn't  tell  me  you  were  here !     Hello,  Rufus." 

"  Hilliard ! "  CuUen's  face  was  red  and  excited. 
"  Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon !  "     He  had  seen  Harmon. 

Hilliard,  taken  utterly  by  surprise,  began  to  phrase 
the  introductions;  he  had  only  just  begun  when  Har- 
mon interrupted  —  Harmon  with  a  set  jaw  and  blaz- 
ing cheeks.  He  was  standing  by  the  writing  table,  and 
one  hand  was  resting  heavily  upon  it.  His  manner 
was  curiously  apprehensive,  curiously  desperate. 

"  Ah !  .  .  .  Mr.  Cullen  .  .  .  most  happy,  I'm  sure 
.  .  .  and  Mr.  Waring  .  .  .  delighted !  "  His  voice  was 
silken  in  its  throatiness.  "  Gentlemen,  I  have  the 
honour  to  be  president  ...  of  the  Silverbow  Mining 
Corporation  .  .  ."  He  paused ;  his  hands  weaved  aim- 
lessly. "  Of  Montana.  .  .  .  Gentlemen.  ...  I  hear 
there's  been  some  adverse  criticism  of  our  propert}^ 
.  .  .  you're  stockholders,  I  understand  .  .  .  not  used 
to  criticism  .  .  ."  He  flung  his  head  erect.  "  /  offer 
you  personally  ...  to  relieve  you  ...  of  any  and 
all  obligations  .  .  .  and  pay  back  penny  for  penny." 
Here  his  knees  shook,  and  he  swaj^ed  appreciably.  He 
was  holding  himself  upright  only  by  tremendous,  visi- 
ble effort. 

"  The  man's  sick !  "  Cullen  stepped  towards  him. 
Waring  and  Hilliard  were  standing  fascinated.  The 
broker  warded  off  Cullen  with  both  hands. 

"  No,  I'm  not  sick !  .  .  .  Contract  calls  for  delivery 
of  ninety-nine  percent  of  capital  stock  ...  on  pay- 
ment of  a  hundred  and  twenty  thousand  dollars  .  .  . 
before  December  first.  .  .  .  You've  paid  sixty-two  .  .  . 
I'm  here  .  .  .  case  of  dissatisfaction  ...  to  write 
checks  for  the  full  amount  paid  down  to  date  ...  I 
release  you  .  .  ." 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  293 

**  Release  us  ?  "  Cullen  all  but  yelled  it,  and  with 
a  note  of  exultation  which  was  electrical  to  Hilliard. 

"  Release  you  .  .  .  get  a  notary  .  .  ."  He  sat 
down  limply.  "  My  check-book,  Hilliard  —  for 
Christ's  sake,  get  me  my  .  .  .  check-book !  "  All  at 
once  he  seemed  to  collapse ;  his  head  hung  low,  and  his 
breathing  became  stertorous.  His  cheeks  puffed 
queerly. 

Hilliard  sprang  to  him.  "  Rufus !  Call  the  office ! 
Get  the  house  doctor  !  " 

Cullen  had  raced  to  the  bath-room  for  a  glass  of 
water ;  he  raced  back  again,  spilling  Imlf  of  it.  Hil- 
liard was  chafing  the  broker's  wrists.  "  Pulse  like  a 
trip-hammer !  "  he  said,  distracted.  "  He  ought  to  be 
lying  down !  Help  me  with  him ! "  The  three  men 
strained  at  the  unwieldy,  unresisting  bulk,  while  leaden 
fear  clutched  at  their  hearts. 

The  house  physician  bustled  in  to  find  the  broker 
lying  on  the  bed  in  a  profound  coma ;  liis  reflexes  had 
gone  from  him ;  he  couldn't  be  roused.  There  was  no 
need  of  a  stethoscope. 

"  Order  an  ice  bag,"  said  the  man  of  medicine  sharply. 
He  himself  was  rattling  among  his  vials  for  the  calomel. 
Rufus  was  at  the  telephone. 

"Anything  I  can  do?"  asked  Hilliard  earnestly. 
His  suspicions  had  crystallized ;  and  he  was  bitterly 
aware  that  the  broker  had  planned  not  justice,  but 
some  new  brand  of  perfidy ;  nevertheless,  the  man  was 
unquestionably   in   danger  —  and   revenge   could   wait. 

*' Nothing  —  just  give  me  plenty  of  room." 

As  the  three  stood  watching  painfully,  Cullen  put 
out  his  hand  to  Hilliard,  and  spoke  under  his  breath. 

**  Henry  —  when  did  he  come  ?  " 


294  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

"  Only  just  now.     An  hour  ago." 

"  Hadn't  he  told  you?     Or  hadn't  you  heard?  " 

"Heard  what?" 

Cullen  motioned  to  Waring. 

"  Give  it  to  him,  Rufus  .  .  .  oh,  I  see;  I  see  — " 

The  law  student,  without  a  word,  produced  a  yellow 
blank,  and  thrust  it  at  Hilliard.  He  flashed  a  glance 
of  indescribable  contempt  at  the  supine  broker;  his 
eyes  had  lost  some  of  their  anxiety. 

"  Oh,  the  big  crook !  "  he  said,  boyishly.  "  The  big 
crook!  " 

"  Sh-h-h  !  Rufus  !  "  Still,  Hilliard,  at  heart,  agreed 
with  him  to  the  letter. 

The  boy  stood  close  to  the  masquerader. 

"  I'm  sorry,  Hilliard  ...  it  came  at  four  this  after- 
noon .   .   .  we'd  been  hunting  for  you  ever  since  .  .  ." 

Hilliard  wasn't  interested. 

"  I'll  wait  until  — " 

Cullen  signed  to  him  peremptorily. 

"  No !     Read  it  now!  " 

"  But,  Mr.  Cullen  — " 

"  Read  it,  I  tell  you !  .  .  .  It'll  give  you  a  slant  on 
him !  " 

Hilliard  peered  over  the  foot  of  the  bed;  Harmon 
was  still  lying  inert.     The  physician  nodded  sidewise. 

"  Nothing  for  you  to  do,"  he  said  grimly ;  and  Hil- 
liard, only  partly  aware  of  what  he  was  doing,  gave 
heed  to  the  yellow  blank. 

The  fourth  telegram  of  the  day  was  from  Butte, 
Montana,  addressed  to  Waring. 

ARRIVED    HERE    LAST    NIGHT    AFTER    DELAY    IN 
CHICAGO    THIS    MORNINGS    PAPERS    CONTAIN 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  ^95 

INFORMATION    AS    FOLLOWS    THE    FAULTED    VEIN 
ON    XLNC    PROPERTY    ADJOINING    SILVERBOW 
CLAIM  NUMBER  ONE  HAS  BEEN  LOCATED  ABOUT 
TWENTY    FEET    FROM    SILVERBOW    BOUNDARY 
INDICATIONS    ARE    ORE    BODY    RUNNING    AT 
LEAST    EIGHT    PERCENT    AVERAGE    AND    SOME 
PLACES    HIGH    AS    TWENTY    ALSO    SOME    ZINC 
AND    SILVER    AND    TRACES    OF    MANGANESE    T'HIS 
EVIDENTLY    EXTENDS    WELL   INTO    SILVERBOW 
WHERE    GREATEST    VALUES    ARE    UNDOUBTEDLY 
LYING   AND    JUDGING    FROM    RECORDS    OF    OLD 
XLNC    VEIN    ITS    A    TREMENDOUSLY    BIG    STRIKE 
UNDERSTAND    XLNC    OWNERS    OFFERING    LARGE 
SUM    SAID    TO    BE    WELL    OVER    HALF    MILLION 
FOR  A  CONTROLLING  INTEREST  I  STRONGLY 
ADVISE   ALL   OF    YOU    TO    GET   ABOARD    FOR   AS 
MUCH  AS  HILLARD  WILL  LET  GO  AM  SENDING 
THIS    FROM    OFFICE    OF    COOLEY    BENJAMIN    AND 
RUSSELL    WHO    WILL    NOT    SEND    SEPARATE 
REPORT    UNLESS   YOU   WANT   IT    THIS   IS   WON- 
DERFUL   NEWS    AND    MINE    IS    SURE    WINNER 
EVEN   IF   ONLY  A    FRACTION   AS    LARGE   AS 
REPORTED    PLEASE    SHOW    THIS    MESSAGE    TO 
HILLIAUD    SIG    J    J    ARMSTRONG 

Hilliard  sat  down  in  the  nearest  chair.  The  lump 
in  his  throat  was  choking  him ;  the  moment  was  so  big 
that  his  feelings  were  primitive ;  his  expression  of 
them  very  simple.  He  only  smiled;  the  meaningless, 
vacuous  smile  of  an  infant.  That  smile  embraced  the 
entire  universe;  it  was  indicative  of  a  happiness  so 
limitless,  so  perfect,  that  it  was  almost  foolish.  So 
Harmon,  knowing  from  his  own  sources  of  the  sudden 
strike,  had  rushed  to  Syracuse  to  pose  as  a  man  of 
honour!     So  Harmon  had  wanted  to  meet  Waring  — 


^96  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

and  find  if  Waring  had  jet  heard  the  news,  and,  if  he 
hadn't,  stop  the .  investigation  by  apparent  frankness 
and  ready  restitution.  So  Harmon  had  been  eager  to 
destroy  the  contract,  to  promise  Hilhard  anything  and 
everything  to  repay  the  money  that  was  subscribed  al- 
ready —  and  then,  as  sole  owner,  to  take  an  enormous 
profit  for  himself. 

No  one  in  the  whole  world  —  and  least  of  all,  Waring 
and  Cullen  —  could  have  remotely  fathomed  the 
thoughts  that  were  eddying  in  Hilllard's  brain.  They 
were  not  for  his  own  aggrandizement ;  they  were  for  the 
Cullens  and  Durants  and  for  the  others  who  need 
never  know  the  acid  of  disillusionment.  Thej  were  for 
the  ideals  he  had  struggled  towards ;  they  were  for  the 
friends  who  had  stood  by  him.  And  there  was  one 
very  especial  and  very  manly  thought  for  Jack  Arm- 
strong, who  had  been  so  courageous  in  his  defeat,  and 
so  neutral  in  his  behaviour  afterwards,  and  who  now 
had  sent  the  generous  news  winging  eastward,  with  the 
request  that  Hilliard  should  learn  at  once  of  his  vin- 
dication. 

And  as  Hilliard  sat  there,  smiling  out  into  the  silent 
room,  and  struggling  to  visualize  the  extent  of  for- 
tune which  had  so  abruptly  smitten  him,  there  was  a 
dry  murmur  from  the  bed  where  Harmon  lay,  and  a 
resulting  silence  so  pregnant  with  meaning  that  the 
smile  faded,  and  Hilliard  was  on  his  feet,  open-e3^ed  with 
the  present  horror  brought  back  to  him. 

The  physician  was  rising  slowly  from  cramped  knees. 

"  It's  all  over,"  he  said ;  paused,  and  added : 
"  Apoplexy." 

The  only  man  in  all  America  who  could  have  testified 
to  Hilliard's  simulation  had  ceased  to  breathe. 


XXIII 

As  Dr.  Durant,  having  already  given  counsel  this 
morning  to  seven  patients,  appeared  at  the  door 
of  the  ante-room  to  signal  to  the  eighth,  he  was  pal- 
pably astonished  at  the  presence  of  the  young  man 
who  sat  next  to  the  door.  The  Doctor  was  very  human ; 
the  Doctor  was  very  adaptable;  but  for  thirty  years 
he  had  managed  to  keep  the  social  and  professional 
phases  of  his  Hfe  entirely  apart,  and  at  the  very  first 
glance  he  was  aware  that  Hilliard  hadn't  come  to 
consult  with  him  professionally.  Nevertheless,  he 
raised  his  finger  in  the  usual  sign;  HilHard  followed 
him  to  the  inner  room. 

It  was  Hilliard's  introduction  to  the  Doctor's  morn- 
ing manner;  and  even  in  his  own  exalted  spirit,  he 
yielded  slightly  to  the  restraint  in  the  atmosphere. 
The  Doctor  was  bland,  smiling,  approachable,  and  yet 
not  at  all  the  same  man  as  he  appeared  at  the  house 
on  James  Street.  The  husk  was  the  same  but  the  kernel 
was  different.  He  seemed  detached  from  the  hamper- 
ing littlenesses  of  a  household ;  there  was  no  air  of  in- 
tentional repose  about  him.  Hilliard,  in  spite  of  the 
importance  of  his  mission,  felt  apologetic;  he  felt  as 
though  he  were  unwittingly  robbing  science  of  its  most 
valuable  asset,  which  is  Time. 

"  I  know  this  isn't  exactly  the  proper  thing  to  do," 
he  said,  "  but  I'm  leaving  town  in  an  hour  or  so  .  .  . 
I  thought  you  might  spare  me  five  minutes,  Doctor, 
even  if  it  is  a  little  irregular.     Can  you.?  " 

297 


298  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

"What  seems  to  be  the  trouble?"  The  Doctor's 
tone  was  a  mild  invitation  to  squander  nothing  on  pre- 
liminaries. 

"  Mr.  Cullen  and  I  are  running  down  to  New  York 
today.  .  .  .  You've  seen  the  morning  papers,  haven't 
you?" 

"Yes."  The  Doctor  nodded.  "And  Cullen  tele- 
phoned me  last  night.  Was  Mr.  ,  .  .  what  was  his 
name:  Harmon?  .  .  .  was  he  a  close  friend  of  yours, 
Hilliard?  " 

"  No ;  just  a  business  associate  ...  I  didn't  know 
him  very  well  personally  —  socially,  I  should  say.  But 
it  changes  some  of  my  plans  .  .  .  Mr.  Cullen  and  I 
have  to  go  to  New  York  for  a  few  days  and  after  that 
we're  going  out  to  Montana  together." 

The  Doctor  tapped  his  desk  thoughtfully. 

"  On  account  of  this  ?  " 

"  Partly,  and  partly  not.  The  whole  perspective's 
changed ;  we've  got  to  get  to  work.  Now,  the  last  time 
I  saw  you  .  .  .  why,  that  was  only  yesterday !  "  He 
broke  off,  laughing  at  himself.  "  It  seems  so  much 
longer  ago  than  that!  Why,  you  said  then  that  if  I 
ever  needed  any  one  of  several  different  things,  includ- 
ing seventy-five  hundred  dollars,  to  come  to  you.  And 
you  spoke  as  though  you  really  meant  it.  Doctor.  .  .  . 
So  I've  come !  " 

The  Doctor  regarded  him  steadily  for  a  moment,  and 
resumed  tapping  the  glass  pad  on  his  desk  with  a 
meditative   forefinger. 

"  You've  reconsidered,  have  you  ?  " 

"  Not  that  so  much  —  but  we've  had  fresh  informa- 
tion. Jack  Armstrong's  out  there,  indirectly  repre- 
senting Mr.   Cullen,   and  we've  heard  from   our  own 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  ^99 

lawyers  besides.  So  on  the  whole,  I'm  willing  to  let  you 
in  if  you're  willing  to  come,  in  spite  of  what  I  said  at 
lunch  yesterday." 

The  Doctor  hesitated. 

"  Not  that  I  doubt  you  at  all,"  he  said,  "  but  when 
CuUen  telephoned  me  last  night,  he  said  that  you  and 
he  had  raised  all  the  money  you  needed  in  half  an  hour 
after  j^ou  went  out  to  look  for  it.  You  see,  I  have 
some  channels  of  information  myself!  So  I  can't  help 
wondering  why  you  need  this  now."  Nevertheless,  he 
was  hunting  for  his  check-book. 

"  We  don^t  need  it  —  I  simply  insisted  on  keeping  a 
place  open  for  you,  on  the  chance  that  you  hadn't 
changed  your  mind." 

"  You're  fully  satisfied  it's  the  right  thing  for  me  to 
do?" 

"Yes,  Doctor,  I  am." 

The  Doctor  held  his  pen  poised  in  the  air.  "  Then 
I'm  not  sure  I'm  really  entitled  to  it.  Doesn't  it 
really  belong  to  some  one  who  was  on  the  spot  last 
night?" 

Hilliard's  eyes  twinkled. 

"  You're  fond  of  talking  about  motives,  Doctor. 
.  .  .  You'd  have  let  me  have  that  money  yesterday, 
wouldn't  you?  " 

"Didn't  I  offer  it  to  you?" 

"  Yes,  sir ;  you  did.  But  was  it  because  you  thought 
you'd  make  a  big  profit,  or  was  it  just  to  help  me?" 

"Why—" 

"  You  see,"  said  Hilliard  cheerily,  "  if  you're  go- 
ing to  have  these  mercenary  motives,  you've  got  to  let 
me  have  some,  too.  I've  let  friendship  interfere  with 
business  twice  in  two  days.     And  you're  not  the  only 


300  THE  ]\IAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

one  I  held  a  place  open  for  —  Rufus  and  Jack  are  in 
it,  too.  It  was  my  privilege  to  make  that  condition 
—  and  I  did." 

The  Doctor  scribbled  rapidly. 

"  Then  I'll  keep  my  promise.  .  .  .  But  would  you 
mind  telling  me  what  it  is  I'm  buying?  " 

"  Here's  your  receipt,  Doctor."  Hilliard  laid  a 
slip  of  paper  on  the  desk ;  took  up  the  check,  and 
scrutinized  it  carefully.  "  What  you've  bought,"  he 
said,  "  is  a  twentieth  interest  in  a  new  syndicate  formed 
last  night.  We'll  assume  the  stock  control  in  New 
York,  when  we  get  there,  by  paying  in  some  more  cash 
(and  we've  got  more  than  we  need  alread}')  and  after 
that,  we  may  possibly  sell  out,  or  we  may  go  ahead  and 
develop  the  mine  ourselves.  I  don't  know  yet  which ; 
that's  what  Mr.  Cullen  and  I  are  going  West  to  de- 
cide. But  you'll  be  protected  anyhow ;  I'll  see  to  that. 
And  if  you're  in  any  hurry  to  get  your  money  back  — " 

"  How  soon  do  j'ou  think  it'll  be?  " 

Hilliard  laughed  outright;  a  laugh  of  utter  happi- 
ness.    "  Right  now,  if  you  say  so." 

The  Doctor  puzzled. 

"  You  don't  make  it  clear,"  he  said. 

"  Then  I  will.  Mr.  Embree,  down  at  the  Trust  and 
Deposit  Company,  was  one  of  the  men  who  wanted  to 
get  in  with  us,  and  couldn't.  He  was  just  too  late. 
But  when  I  told  him  what  I  was  saving  out  for  you, 
he  authorized  me  to  make  you  an  offer.  I'm  acting  as 
his  agent,  that  is,  and  I've  got  his  check  here,  and  if 
you  want  to  endorse  that  receipt  over  to  him,  you  can 
have  this."  He  presented  the  banker's  check ;  the  Doc- 
tor started;  it  was  payable  to  himself,  signed  by  Em- 
bree, and  written  for  fifteen  thousand  dollars. 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  301 

"  Why,  Hilliard  !  "  he  said,  blankly.  "  Is  that  good 
business?     For  Embree?     What's   behind  this?" 

Hilliard  fairly  beamed  his  delight.  "  Well,  if  you 
want  my  advice,  don't  take  it !  I  told  him  I'd  have 
to  explain  it  to  you,  and  he  agreed."  He  sat  straighter, 
pridefully.  "  Jack  Armstrong  sent  another  wire  this 
morning  —  and  the  XLNC  crowd,  who  own  the  property 
next  to  ours,  know  that  I've  had  this  contract  for  all 
the  Silverbow  stock,  and  they've  made  us  a  flat  proposi- 
tion of  " —  he  caught  his  breath  — '*  four  —  hundred 
—  thousand  dollars  for  the  contract !  And  your  twen- 
tieth share  would  be  worth  twenty  thousand  dollars  if 
we  took  it !  But  we're  not  going  to  —  because  it's 
worth  still  more,  and  we  know  it.  Lots  more  —  twice 
as  much  —  so  — " 

The  Doctor's  expression  altered  slightly ;  his  chin 
sank  a  little,  and  he  sighed,  almost  in  regret. 

"  That  hardly  seems  fair,"  he  said  slowly.  "  That 
hardly  seems  fair."  He  smiled  fitfully,  and  sighed 
again.  "  For  years  and  years,"  he  said,  "  ever  since 
I  first  began  to  practise,  I've  been  working  and  waiting 
and  hoping  to  reach  the  point  where  I  could  give  up 
office-work,  and  do  some  research.  .  .  .  And  here,  in  a 
few  minutes,  you  dangle  a  two  years'  income  in  front 
of  me  —  for  no  services  of  mine  at  all  .  .  .  for  no 
labour  on  my  part  .  .  .  not,  as  I'd  hoped,  the  result  of 
service,  but  — " 

"  I  own  a  quarter  of  the  mine  myself,"  said  Hilliard, 
with  equal  gravity.  "  And  I'm  not  thinking  how  I  got 
it,  Doctor ;  I'm  thinking  how  much  good  I  can  do  with 
it  .  .  .  can't  you  look  at  it  that  way,  too?" 

The  Doctor  nodded  presently. 

"  I  suppose  that  has  to  be  the  answer.     Well  — " 


SOa  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

"I'll  tell  Embree  you  didn't  accept."  Hilliard 
reached  for  his  hat.  "  And  I  mustn't  bother  you  any 
more  this  morning ;  we've  both  too  much  to  do.  I  only 
wanted  to  see  you  a  moment,  and  tell  you  the  news,  and 
get  your  check.  But  when  Cullen  and  I  come  back  — " 
His  smile  was  glorious. 

They  were  shaking  hands  at  the  door  of  the  ante- 
room. 

"That'll  be  before  the  holidays,  won't  it?  We  ex- 
pect you  to  take  Christmas  dinner  with  us,  of  course. 
Mrs.  Durant  and  Carol  would  never  forgive  you  if  you 
didn't  —  and  neither  would  I." 

Hilliard  flushed  with  pleasure. 

"  Nothing  would  please  me  better  .  .  .  and  you'll 
tell  Mrs.  Durant  and  Carol  how  grateful  I  am  .  .  . 
and  how  sorry  I  am  I  can't  even  stop  now  to  say  good- 
bye, won't  you?  "  As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  wasn't  go- 
ing to  stop  because  he  knew  that  if  he  did,  he  might 
never  get  to  Montana.  And  there  was  need  of  quick 
action  against  Harmon's  cut-throat  partners  in  New 
York. 

"  Surely  I  will.  And  I'll  also  tell  them  what  an  al- 
truist you  are.  I  still  don't  feel  exactly  right  about 
it, —  but  the  world's  the  world.  .  .  .  And  I'm  not  going 
to  refuse  an  investment  just  because  there  happens  to 
be  money  in  it !     Good-bye !     Good  luck,  my  boy !  " 


XXIV 

ALREADY  at  daybreak  it  was  a  white  Christmas; 
white  underfoot,  white  overhead,  dancing,  swirl- 
ing white  of  snow  in  the  winter  air.  Hilliard,  lifting 
himself  on  his  elbow  to  watch  it  from  the  car  window, 
was  unreservedly  thrilled  by  the  appropriateness  of 
it.  Nature,  which  had  been  sulking  for  a  week  or  more, 
had  finally  consented  to  dress  the  season.  But  the 
thrill  dissolved,  and  anxiety  took  its  place  when  he 
discovered  that  it  was  past  eight  o'clock,  and  this  was 
only  Buffalo !  His  watch,  and  the  railway  folder, 
gave  him  indigestible  food  for  thought,  and  the  snow, 
taking  upon  itself  the  role  of  a  barrier  to  traffic,  was 
suddenly  less  agreeable  to  look  at.  Wreaths  in  the 
windows  of  nearby  houses,  holly  berries  and  red  ribbon, 
glimpses  of  feathery  fir  boughs  and  tinsel  through  the 
curtains  —  all  these  awoke  within  him  a  new  and  a 
disturbing  fancy  that  at  the  end  of  two  thousand  miles 
of  visioning  he  might  be  irretrievably  late !  lUogically 
he  made  haste  to  rise;  he  wanted  to  flavour  his  impa- 
tience by  counting  landmarks. 

The  diner  was  half  filled  when  he  arrived  for  break- 
fast ;  and  the  train  was  still  standing  in  the  yards.  As 
the  conductor  wished  him  a  perfunctory  Merry  Christ- 
mas, Hilliard  smiled  obliquely. 

"  Not  unless  you  make  up  some  speed  between  here 
and  Syracuse,"  he  said. 

"  Not  much  chance  of  that,"  said  the  conductor, 
punching  the  order  slip.     "  It's  deep  snow  from  here 

303 


304»  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

on,  sir.  Lucky  if  we're  in  in  time  for  jour  turke}^!" 
Hilliard  sighed,  brightened  as  the  train  dragged  it- 
self into  sluggish  motion,  and  gave  his  attention  to  the 
landscape.  It  was  typically  a  scene  from  a  Christmas 
card;  all  it  needed,  at  any  moment,  was  a  few  lines  of 
engraving  in  the  foreground  to  be  a  very  fair  counter- 
part of  the  cards  which  Hilliard  had  ordered  sent  out 
from  Billy  Foote's  to  all  his  friends.  He  mentally  re- 
viewed the  list ;  as  soon  as  he  had  realized  how  long  the 
western  business  would  detain  him,  he  had  written  to 
Foote's,  and  forwarded  a  model  card,  and  fifty  town 
addresses.  He  smiled  again,  expansively,  at  the  con- 
ception of  what  the  name  of  Hilliard  on  those  cards  now 
meant  to  Syracuse.  Communities  are  always  fiddling 
with  the  telescope  of  esteem  — -  looking  at  success 
through  the  big  lens,  and  failure  through  the  small  one, 
and  exaggerating  the  facts.  They  were  undoubtedly 
magnifying  his  grandeur  now  ;  he  knew  enough  of  human 
nature  to  realize  that  in  his  home-coming  he  was  certain 
to  be  greeted  as  a  multi-millionaire.  And  it  wasn't 
multi  —  it  was  only  the  possibility  of  a  single  one  ! 

The  thought  of  riches  turned  his  mind  to  the  individ- 
uals who  would  share  in  them ;  Dr.  Durant,  who,  unless 
he  chose,  need  never  keep  office  hours  again  —  he  could 
devote  himself  to  the  research  he  loved;  Cullen,  whose 
blind,  bulldog  faith  had  made  him  for  ever  independent, 
even  Rufus  Waring,  whose  modest  contribution,  ac- 
cepted out  of  spleenless  commiseration,  had  swelled  to 
the  dignity  of  four  figures,  and  given  him  the  means  to 
show  the  world  to  Angela.  And  Hilliard  himself  had 
made  far  more  than  all  the  other  venturers  combined 
.  .  .  not  in  money,  perhaps,  but  in  dividends  payable  in 
the  medium  of  his  self-respect. 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  306 

And  yet,  as  the  realities  stood,  now,  he  was  sensitive 
to  the  nothingness  of  his  triumph,  until  such  time  as  he 
had  some  one  to  divide  it  with  him.  For  there  is  little 
pleasure  in  a  monopoly  of  happiness ;  not  even  a  joke  is 
fully  established  until  some  one  appears  to  share  it;  a 
secret  is  delectable  only  when  it's  repeated,  a  conquest 
is  empty  without  the  popular  acclaim,  or  the  arrival  of 
the  historian.  He  felt  this  keenly ;  he  reflected  that  of 
all  the  syndicate,  he  alone  was  without  a  beneficiary. 
And  today,  when  he  had  steeled  himself  to  speak  to 
Carol  .  .  .  Like  countless  generations  of  men  before 
him,  he  began  vaguely  to  wonder  what  he  should  do  if 
she  refused  him. 

What  would  be  left?  Only  the  shell  of  achievement. 
Would  he  go  back  to  France?  or  would  he  remain  in 
America,  and  struggle  for  success  by  endowing  war 
charities  out  of  his  glorious  income-to-be?  Also  .  .  . 
and  this  was  enervating  .  .  .  what  should  he  say  to 
her?  It  is  given  to  few  men  to  propose  twice,  in  dif- 
ferent characters,  to  the  same  girl. 

The  train  ploughed  and  panted  through  the  thicken- 
ing drifts ;  Hilliard's  watch  was  coming  out  of  his 
pocket  at  five-minute  intervals ;  here  was  Rochester  at 
last  .  .  .  three  hours  late  .  .  .  and  there,  shining 
dimly  through  banked  clouds,  was  the  sun !  The  train 
seemed  warmed  to  greater  effort  by  its  mere  appear- 
ance; Hilliard,  who  had  measured  time  by  weeks,  then 
by  days,  and  more  recently  by  reluctant  hours,  began  to 
mark  the  minutes  from  his  mental  calendar. 

And  then  after  an  interminable  century  of  impatience, 
the  outlying  villages,  grey  and  smoky ;  the  flat  wastes  of 
Solvay ;  the  roads  slowlv  becoming  streets ;  the  buildings 
adding  height  .  .  .  Syracuse ! 


306  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

His  feet  were  on  the  platform ;  he  was  hurrying  for- 
ward. Ahead  of  him  .  .  .  and  in  his  excitability  he 
stumbled  heavily  .  .  .  there,  coming  toward  him  .  .  . 
Carol  and  the  Doctor,  befurrcd  and  rosy  ...  no  ques- 
tion of  the  welcome  they  were  bringing  him ! 

His  own  initial  remarks  were  grossly  incoherent. 
There  were  no  words  to  fit  the  situation ;  perhaps  he  did 
it  greater  justice  by  the  disconnected  sounds  he  made. 
And  then  he  was  entering  the  Doctor's  closed  car ;  they 
were  bouncing  over  the  cobbles  of  the  lower  city ;  they 
were  attacking  the  grade  of  James  Street,  and  he  was 
peering  out  in  an  ecstasy-  of  memory  at  the  houses  where 
he  had  played  in  boyhood. 

Two  o'clock  ...  on  time  for  dinner  to  the  second! 
A  house  hanging  with  evergreens ;  a  Christmas  spirit 
permeating  every  nook  and  cranny ;  Christmas  odours 
—  not  all  of  evergreen  —  drifting  in  tantalizing  whifFs 
to  meet  him. 

A  joyous  interlude;  a  gay  procession;  a  hush;  a 
gravely  spoken  blessing  —  Oh,  that  Christmas  ! 

There  came  a  time,  early  in  the  evening,  when  Hilliard 
found  himself  alone  with  Carol.  He  had  a  vague  recol- 
lection that  they  had  been  sent  to  look  for  something 
.  .  .  a  corn  popper,  or  some  other  equally  futile 
article  .  .  .  and  for  an  instant,  he  marvelled  at  tlieir 
expecting  to  find  it  in  the  sun-parlour,  where  they  had 
wandered.  But  the  sun-parlour  was  happily  unoccu- 
pied ;  and  there  were  comfortable  chairs  in  it ;  and  some- 
thing very  green  and  red  and  seasonable  in  all  the  win- 
dows ;  so  that  they  both  delayed  prodigiously,  and  ex- 
changed a  number  of  highly  inconsequential  remarks 
about  the  decorations.     Presently,  without  so  much  as  a 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  807 

transient  thought  for  the  corn-popper,  they  sat  down 
with  one  accord.  From  a  distance,  the  murmur  of 
cheerful  voices  in  the  living  room  was  an  adequate  ac- 
companiment to  their  thoughts. 

Hilliard's  head  was  dropped  low ;  his  revery  was  so 
profound,  that  not  even  Carol's  voice  could  rouse  him  — 
not  until  she  spoke  a  second  time. 

"  I  said  —  a  penny  for  them,"  she  repeated,  amused. 

"  Oh ! "  Hilliard's  awakening  was  explosive. 
"  Why,  that's  queer  ...  I  was  just  thinking  about 
that  myself!  I  mean  the  first  Sunday  I  ever  came  up 
here  to  dinner.  You  said  the  same  thing  then.  Re- 
member it.?  " 

"  Yes,  indeed  .  .  .  and  they  were  a  wonderful  bar- 
gain at  the  price !  "  He  didn't  seem  to  recall  that  she 
had  ever  looked  so  mischievous. 

"  They  are  now,  then,"  he  said.  "  Because  it's  just 
as  it  was  before  —  I  was  thinking  about  you."  Regard- 
ing her,  he  was  transported  anew  by  her  loveliness. 
And  it  wasn't  only  her  external  loveliness  that  he  adored, 
it  was  what  she  had  of  sympathy,  and  kindness,  and 
sweetness  of  disposition.  A  very  womanly  girl  she 
was  .  .  .  not  a  flaming  character  to  blaze  and  die,  but 
a  steady  and  enduring  soul  .  .  .  such  as  he  craved  .  .  . 

She  turned  her  head  away. 

"  I  was  very  angry  at  you  this  morning,"  she  said ; 
"  I  thought  you'd  forgotten  about  me  entirely." 

Hilliard  affected  alarm.     "  How  could  that  happen?  " 

"  Not  even  so  much  as  a  little  card  with  '  Merry 
Christmas  '  on  it,"  she  said.  "  Father  and  mother  had 
one  from  you,  but  as  for  me  — "  She  opened  her  hands 
in  emptiness.     "  I  looked  over  every  one  of  them  twice." 

Hilliard  felt  his  pulses  quicken. 


SOS  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

"  Doesn't  mj  coming  to  you  make  up  a  little  for  it?  " 

"  No,  I'm  afraid  it  doesn't, —  not  in  that  way.  I'm 
still  very  childish  about  Christmas.  I  have  to  see  it  — 
even  if  it's  only  in  the  tiniest  little  remembrances.  I'm 
very  much  hurt.  I've  been  telling  myself  it  must  be  the 
postman's  fault." 

He  denied  it  bravely.  "  It  wasn't  the  postman's  — 
it  was  mine.  Because  I  didn't  intend  to  send  you  a  re- 
membrance at  all  —  I  intended  to  bring  it.  I  planned 
to  give  it  to  you  before  dinner,  but  when  I  was  so  late, 
and  everybody  was  waiting — " 

She  turned  with  gratifying  quickness. 

"  Did  you  bring  it?  " 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  I  brought  it.  I'm  not  quite  sure 
whether  you'll  like  it  or  not  — " 

"  I'll  like  anything  you  brought !  "  The  pronoun 
had  an  infinitesimal  emphasis  all  to  itself. 

Hilliard  cleared  his  throat. 

"  When  I  was  young  — " 

"  I  beg  your  pardon  ?  " 

He  laughed  at  high  pressure  and  began  over  again. 

"  When  I  was  3'oung,  Mother  Grundy  had  a  very 
small  selection  to  choose  from  —  books  and  candy  and 
flowers.  If  Vd  sent  you  anything  by  mail,  I  think  I'd 
have  had  to  obey  the  rules,  yiy  early  training  was 
pretty  severe.  But  I  thought  if  I  brought  it  myself, 
perhaps  I  could  be  more  original." 

"How  original?"  she  asked,  with  pretty  animation. 

His  heart  was  pounding  relentlessly ;  he  had  lost  the 
elaborate  recital  which  he  carefully  prepared;  and  it 
was  gone  without  a  trace.  He  had  to  depend  on  pres- 
ence of  mind. 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  309 

**  Since  I  couldn't  keep  to  my  schedule,  I've  been  sav- 
ing it  up  to  give  you  when  everything  was  propitious." 
He  tendered  her  a  package,  tied  with  holly  ribbon ;  it 
was  smaller  than  a  book,  and  smaller  than  any  orthodox 
carrier  of  confection.  "  Don't  open  it  just  yet, 
please  .   .   ." 

She  looked  at  it,  pinched  it,  dropped  it  in  her  lap, 
and  laughed  softly. 

"  Is  there  such  a  mystery  about  it.''  " 

"  Yes,  there  is."  Hilliard  felt  himself  begin  to  go 
with  the  current  of  his  mood.  He  sat  up  awkwardly. 
"  All  that  you  could  ever  think  of  asking  about  me  .  .  . 
where  I've  been  and  what  I've  done  ...  is  in  that  box. 
It's  everything  ...  a  biography,  and  a  history  .  .  . 
and  it's  my  gift  to  you,  too.  But  before  you  open 
it  .  .  ."  He  had  to  pause  to  collect  himself.  "  I'll 
have  to  make  an  explanation."  He  fought  with  it,  and 
found  his  lips  strangely  sealed. 

"  Is  it  so  ver}^  hard  to  make?  "  she  asked  at  length. 

"'Almost  impossible  .  .  ."  He  was  seeing  black  and 
red.  Even  if  "  everybody  "  had  expected  him  to  do  this 
thing  (as  Angela  had  long  since  assured  him)  what 
reason  did  he  have  to  hope  for  pardon?  "  What  would 
you  think,"  he  asked,  perilously,  "  of  a  man  who  cared 
enough  about  you  to  risk  everything  he  had  in  the  world 
.  .  .  not  his  valuables  in  the  sense  of  money  .  .  .  but 
all  his  ambitions  for  everything;  all  his  dreams;  all  his 
ideals;  all  his  hopes  ...  on  a  Christmas  gift?  What 
would  you?  " 

She  frowned  adorably. 

"And  .   .   .  he's  not  just  a  little  bit  quixotic?" 

"  Not  at  all  .  .  .  suppose  he  did  it  deliberately,  and 


310  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

after  a  great  deal  of  thought.  Just  on  the  chance  that 
it  might  please  you?  Wlien  it  would  either  do  that  — 
or  end  our  friendship  ?  " 

She  fingered  the  small  package  over  and  over. 

"  Why,  I  should  think  that  if  this  .  .  .  mythical  per- 
son were  so  very  anxious  to  please  me,  he  wouldn't  take 
quite  so  much  risk." 

"  But  when  I'm  the  mythical  person  myself  —  that's 
different,  isn't  it?" 

"  Why  should  it  be  ?  "  She  gave  him  no  opportunity 
to  see  her  face. 

"  You've  forgotten  a  great  deal.  I  told  you  once 
that  if  you  knew  all  that  I've  been  ...  all  that  I've 
done  .  .  .  you  might  not  be  so  willing  to  have  my 
friendship,  anyway." 

"  No,"  she  said,  subdued.  "  I've  not  forgotten,  but 
you  have !     I  said  that  I  didn't  believe  you." 

"  You're  holding  it  all  in  your  hands,"  said  Hilliard. 
His  expression,  as  he  gazed  at  her,  was  infinitely  yearn- 
ing ;  but  his  voice  was  even  and  low.  "  I  spent  a  good 
many  hours  over  this  .  .  .  wondering  whether  it  was 
right  for  me  to  take  such  a  risk  on  this  day,  above  all 
others  .  .  .  and  finally,  I  thought  it  out  this  way;  if  it 
pleases  you,  it  ought  to  make  the  day  better  yet  ...  if 
it  doesn't,  it  would  have  been  just  as  unwelcome  to  you 
at  any  other  time.  Understand,  I'll  never  attempt  to 
excuse  anything  .  .  .  we're  beyond  that.  All  I  can  do 
is  to  wait.  I'm  giving  you  .  .  .  will  you  open  it  now, 
please?  " 

Her  fingers  bungled  ^vith  the  knot,  and  he  made  as 
though  to  httlp  her. 

"  No,"  she  said,  holding  the  package  away  from  him, 
"  I  want  to  open  it  all  myself !  " 


THE  MAX  NOBODY  KNEW  311 

Hilliard,  rigid,  watched  her.  A  phrase  was  beating 
heavily  against  his  consciousness  .  .  .  one  of  tlie 
Proverbs  .  .  .  something  about  the  bread  of  deceit,  and 
ashes  .  .  . 

The  knot  gave  way ;  and  the  tissue  wrapping,  falling 
aside,  disclosed  an  oblong  pasteboard  box.  Carol 
lifted  the  lid  and  Hilliard  caught  his  breath.  There 
were  two  cabinet  photographs ;  uppermost  was  a  very 
excellent  likeness  of  Hilliard  himself.  She  looked  at 
him  perplexedly;  he  was  getting  out  his  fountain  pen. 
His  hand  was  cold,  unstead3\ 

"  It  lacks  something,  doesn't  it?  "  he  said,  in  an  un- 
dertone. "  Let  me  have  it  a  moment."  While  she  fol- 
lowed his  every  movement,  he  wrote,  with  his  left  hand 
and  somewhat  painstakingly,  an  inscription;  and  gave 
back  the  picture. 

"'Christmas,  1916,"  she  read,  "'with  love  from 
Henry  Hilliard.'  "     She  flushed  hotly. 

"  Now  look  !  "  he  said,  ignoring  her  reaction.  "  The 
.  .  .  the  next  one."  Mechanically  she  took  out  the 
second  photograph ;  it  was  a  duplicate  of  the  picture  of 
Dicky  Morgan  on  the  Doctor's  desk.  Her  cheeks  were 
suddenly  devoid  of  colour,  she  stared  fearfully  at  him 
without  speaking. 

"  That  lacks  something,  too,"  he  said :  and  his  voice 
was  yielding  to  the  tremendous  strain  upon  him.  With 
conspicuous  care  he  shifted  the  pen  to  his  right  hand ; 
held  it  poised  for  a  moment,  gave  her  a  smile  of  ineffable 
pathos,  closed  his  teeth  liard.  "  I  have  a  very  useful 
little  trait,"  he  said;  "  I'm  ambidextrous."  And  wrote 
his  message. 

She  had  the  evidence  before  her  —  the  inimitable,  un- 
mistakable, ornamental  script  of  another  personality. 


312  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

"Christmas,    1916  — and   love /from   Dick  to   Carol." 

"  The  real  gift  is  underneath,"  lie  said,  and  his  diction 
now  was  foreign  even  to  himself.  "  But  .  .  .  no,  no, 
go  on  .  .  ." 

Her  uncertain,  exploring  fingers  had  touched  a 
smaller  box;  it  sprang  open  in  her  palm;  within,  was  a 
gorgeously  flashing,  scintillating,  living  gem,  set  in 
platinum.  Her  hands,  unsteady  now  as  were  his  own, 
closed  over  it  as  though  to  guard  and  shelter  it.  Her 
eves  sought  his,  and  held  them  —  fright  w^as  meeting 
fright. 

"  And  in  my  thought,"  he  said,  "  are  all  the  sweet 
memories  I  have  of  30U  .  .  .  and  all  the  fragrance  of 
you  .  .  .  and  in  the  stone  there  .  .  .  there's  a  story 
for  you  to  read  .  .  .  bigger  than  any  book  could 
hold  .  .  ."  She  still  made  no  answer ;  she  was  holding 
her  three  gifts  tightly,  and  staring  at  him,  staring  .  .  . 
not  in  the  revulsion  he  had  imagined,  not  in  the  measure- 
less contempt  he  had  feared,  but  with  the  wraith  of  a 
smih}  trembling  on  her  pale  lips.  "  Only  one  of  the  pho- 
tographs is  to  keep,"  he  said  thickly.  "  One  of  the  two 
.  .  .  I'm  giving  you  the  chance  to  say  which  it  is  .  .  . 
which  one  of  the  two  you  want  to  live  ...  if  you  want 
either  of  those  men  to  go  on  loving  you  .  .  .  or  if  you 
want  them  both  to  go  away  —  for  always !  " 

In  her  eyes,  there  was  another  miracle :  her  eyes  were 
soft,  and  indicative  of  a  great  relief,  ratlier  than  of  a 
great  shock:  and  as  he  watched,  spellbound,  he  saw  that 
tears  were  creeping  into  them,  and  not  of  sorrow  but  of 
great  joy.  In  that  moment  his  most  stupefying  dis- 
covery was  made,  and  the  magnitude  of  it,  the  porNnt 
of  it,  set  his  brain  at  naught,  and  left  him  destitute  of 
reason. 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  313 

"  Carol  1 "  he  said,  petrified.     "  Carol!  " 

Mute,  she  shook  her  head.  Looking  him  full  in  the 
eyes,  she  flinched  suddenly,  and  a  great  sob  burst  in  her 
tliroat.  The  photograph  of  Dicky  ]Morgan  was  in  her 
hand;  she  held  it  a  moment,  trembling,  and  then,  while 
her  breath  came  faster  and  her  shoulders  quivered,  she 
tore  it  across  and  across,  finer  and  finer,  until  only  frag- 
mentary scraps  remained  —  and  these  she  let  fall  in  her 
lap,  uniieeded.  The  likeness  of  Hilliard, —  the  lying, 
radiant  face  of  the  man  nobody  knew  —  this  she  had 
seized,  and  this  she  had  clutched  to  her  breast,  spasmod- 
ically, as  though  in  fear  to  have  it  snatched  away  from 
her. 

Hilliard  was  ver\^  close  to  her;  and  his  whole  being 
was  concentrated  in  his  eyes. 

"  Carol !  "  he  said  to  her  again  in  that  stranger's 
voice.     "  Carol  .  .   .  You  .  .  .  you  kneic!  " 

Tardily,  unwillingly,  she  raised  her  head. 

"  From  the  very  first  day,"  she  said  brokenly. 
"  Both  Dad  and  I  .  .  .  and  no  one  else ;  not  even 
Mother  .  .  .  your  eyes  told  us  both,  and  we've  trusted 
you  so  .  .  .  and  waited  so  surely  ...  we  knew  it 
would  come  out  all  right  in  the  end,  somehow  .  .  .  and 
.  .  .  and  .  .  ,  1  do  like  my  gift !  It  does  make  the 
day  better  .   .   .  Henry ! " 

She  had  called  him  "  Henry  "  and  even  in  the  spell 
of  his  confusion,  he  throbbed  to  the  significance  of  it. 

The  lover  was  eager,  but  the  prodigal  was  startled 
back  from  the  very  threshold  of  love. 

"  From  the  first  day ! "  he  breathed,  electrified. 
*'  And  you  trusted  me  like  that  .  .  .  when  you  knew 
what  I  was  doing  — " 

She  was  laughing  and  crying  at  the  same  time;  his 


SU  THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW 

hungry  arms  went  out  to  her  and  found  her ;  words  were 
coming  tumultuously  to  him  and  he  said  them  as  they 
came.  Somehow  the  ring  was  on  her  finger;  and  she 
had  kissed  it  there.  Between  them,  partnered,  a  sacred 
understanding  as  imperishable  as  bronze  had  arisen ; 
they  both  knew,  without  the  necessity  of  prolonged 
speech,  what  his  future  was  to  be.  They  both  knew  in 
what  capacity  he  was  to  face  the  world ;  they  both  knew 
the  brimming  fulness  of  her  pardon  and  the  brimming 
fulness  of  his  regret.  These  truths  were  mutually  con- 
firmed;  the  shabby  past  was  indistinguishably  merged 
with  the  fresh  and  vivid  present ;  their  pledges  to  this 
end  were  upon  their  lips.  The  world  was  lying  helpless 
at  their  feet  .  .  .  the  wonderful,  sensitive,  receptive 
world  which  had  respected  and  honoured  and  admired 
him  in  the  days  of  his  regeneration,  and  would  continue, 
paying  the  reward  of  his  conquest. 

In  an  irresistible  passion  of  humility  and  shame  and 
courage,  he  tried  to  tell  her  the  sums  of  his  deceits ;  her 
lips  prevented  him. 

"  You  mustn't !  "  she  murmured.  "  Never !  You  let 
me  choose  —  I  want  it  this  way." 

Dazed,  triumphant,  he  was  re-living  bygone  incidents, 
seeing  faint  clues  develop  into  mighty  revelations,  com- 
prehending at  last  the  supreme  love  and  supreme  faith 
of  the  two  who  had  waited  for  his  victory,  and  kept  his 
secret  shut  within  their  hearts,  that  he  might  stand  the 
ordeal,  and  prove  triumphant.  And  now,  the  reputa- 
tion that  was  already  his  .  .  .  the  loftier  reputation 
which  he  should  consecrate  himself  to  build  .  .  .  not 
only  for  the  pleasure  of  the  building,  but  also  because 
there  were  those  to  whom  he  owed  it  .  . 


THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW  315 

Behind  them,  a  firm  footfall.  Hilliard  was  on  his 
feet,  his  arm  instinctively  protecting  Carol.  Dr. 
Durant  was  smiling  on  them  from  the  doorway  .  .  . 
grave,  benevolent,  paternal.  He,  too,  became  a  com- 
mon partner  to  the  understanding;  an  interchange  of 
glances  was  sufficient.  He  came  in  swiftly ;  his  hands 
outstretched,  his  head  lifted  high  in  the  pride  of  a 
father  who  has  looked  upon  his  children,  and  found  them 
true  to  each  other,  and  to  him. 

"  What !  "  he  said.  "  Have  you  proved  it  already  — 
my  son?  " 


THE    END 


A     000  129^^^     3 


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